A Light That's Keeping Us Forever
by EnoughToTemptMe
Summary: Chapter One: Clarke and Bellamy and the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. (A collection of tumblr prompt fics.)
1. Seven Letters

Prompt from jasminenightshade on tumblr: Clarke and Bellamy and the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle.

* * *

When Clarke shuffles sleepily into the kitchen wearing Bellamy's shirt and a pair of socks, Bellamy's sitting at the dining table surrounded by the New York Times. The oversized mug that's decorated with a little bone and the words _I found this humerus _that he bought for her when she got her radiology fellowship is sitting in the tiny bit of open space left on the surface, steam still curling up from it.

"I love you," she sighs as she sits in the seat next to him and wraps her hands around the warm mug. His is next to it, already empty, and Clarke smiles when she notices it's the one she gave him when he got tenured: _I have a black belt in history._

Bellamy mumbles vaguely in response and frowns at the Sunday crossword puzzle. Clarke scoots her chair closer so she can lean against him and peer down at the clues.

"'Spartan colonnades'?" Clarke reads aloud.

"Stoas," he says in a distracted tone. "I already got that one. They're like Greek covered walkways." Then he groans. "I _know _I know this one. It's on the tip of my tongue."

"Which clue?" she asks. He shifts the paper so it's a little closer to her and points.

"Nine down, twelve letters. 'To throw out a window.'"

"Defenestrate," Clarke replies immediately, and takes a huge gulp of her coffee. It's prepared just the way she likes it, milky and sweeter than any human being should be able to tolerate, as Bellamy likes to tell her.

Bellamy promptly fills in the word, then turns to look at her and raises an eyebrow. "That was quick."

She shrugs. "It's a hard word to forget. High school, AP European History, we learned about the Defenestration of Prague. Some Catholics were thrown out of a window and fell seventy feet but survived because they landed in a––"

Clarke's cut off in the middle of her sentence by Bellamy's mouth on hers. She squeaks in surprise, but then she smiles against his lips and kisses him back. When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far, just leans his forehead against hers.

"What was _that _for?" she asks breathlessly, still smiling.

"You know I love it when you talk history to me," he says with a grin, and presses another hot kiss to her lips. Clarke moans into his mouth when he sucks her bottom lip, and she blindly sets her mug back on the table so she can thread her hands through his messy bed hair.

In between kisses, Bellamy asks "Did you––know that was––actually––the _Second––_Defenestration––of Prague?"

He wraps an arm around her waist and hauls her off her chair and into his lap. Once she's straddling him, his mouth goes straight to her neck.

"_Really_?" she pants. "Why don't you––_oh––_teach me about it?"

"I don't know," he replies, tugging the collar of the shirt down so he can nibble on her clavicle. "I'm in the middle of the crossword. And it's a _very _stimulating puzzle this week."

Clarke huffs. "Well, here's my clue for you: seven letters, 'I'm not wearing any _blank_.'"

Bellamy pauses in the middle of unbuttoning the shirt and pulls away to look at her.

"Pajamas?" he says slowly.

She bites her lip to keep from grinning and shakes her head. "First two letters are right, though. Oh, and the last one."

(It only takes him one more guess, but he gets it _exactly_ right.)


	2. Snapchat

Prompt from sadgirlokay on tumblr: "My friend thought you were cute so she tried to take a picture of you for snapchat and her flash went off but when you looked our way she shoved her phone into my hands and nOW YOU THINK IT'S ME AND OH GOD PLS DON'T BE MAD"

Also, just so you all know, the explicit chapters of this collection are posted on my AO3 account if you want to check them out. There's a link in my profile, and you don't need an account to read, give kudos, or comment!

* * *

Clarke's got her nose in a paperback copy of _Pride and Prejudice _while she waits in line with Raven at the campus bookstore. It's the first week of the new spring quarter and there's a line of students wrapping throughout the whole building and down the stairs, all of them hoping beyond hope that they'll get through the check-out line before they're late for their next class.

Clarke ordered her textbooks from the cheaper online vendors weeks ago, but Raven guilted her into accompanying her to the bookstore when she reminded Clarke that she had ditched their spring break plans.

("I had the flu!" Clarke had protested.

Raven didn't care.

"You want me to remind you who took your spot in the group, Clarke?"

"Not really," Clarke had said, "considering you already complained about him to me for the last five hours."

"_Kyle Wick_, Clarke. I had to hike in the woods with _Wick. _For _days_."

"And Sterling, and Mel, and a bunch of our other friends," Clarke reminded her.

"And _Wick_," Raven had snarled, color high in her cheeks.)

They've been in line for nearly an hour, and thankfully they're almost at the front, but Clarke's not all that sure why Raven insisted she come along. The other girl has been preoccupied with something on her phone basically the entire time they've been waiting together––she hasn't even yelled at Clarke about reading a book while they're supposed to be hanging out.

"Clarke!" Raven hisses. "Look at how hot that cashier is!"

Clarke glances up from Mr. Darcy's first ill-mannered meeting with Elizabeth Bennet, follows Raven's not-so-discreet pointing. The guy she's indicating _is _pretty cute, all tan skin and dark messy hair and bone structure Clarke would _love _to sketch. But…

"He'd be cuter if he took that nasty look off his face," she replies, and returns to her book as they shuffle forward in line. There are only a couple people in between them and the check-out stands, and even as Clarke watches the second, nicer-looking cashier waves them forward.

"Hey, stand in front of me a little, okay?" Raven says, shoving lightly at Clarke until she sighs and moves up a little. "Wick is going to be _pissed _when I snapchat a picture of this guy to him."

Raven stands behind Clarke to hide as she takes the shot, and Clarke frowns.

"Wait," Clarke begins, "why are you snapchatting Kyle if you're still so pissed about going hiking with him––?"

Raven's phone takes the picture with a blindingly bright flash just as the hot cashier starts to turn toward them, gesturing for the next customer.

"Shit," Raven squeaks, and drops the stack of textbooks she's been waiting to purchase; just before the cashier looks directly at them, she shoves her phone at Clarke, who barely manages to catch it in her hands.

"_Next_," the cashier bites out, now glaring at her, and Clarke gulps, all-too-aware of the phone she's still holding in her hands.

Raven hurriedly finishes grabbing her books and heads for him, and Clarke trails after her, nervously tapping the phone against her book.

Her friend dumps her supplies on the counter and the cashier automatically starts to scan the books, but he won't stop glaring at Clarke. To avoid his gaze, she looks down at the phone in her hand. It's started to dim, but it's not locked, and a quick tap has the screen brightening again. Clarke immediately swipes over to the messages app, and her earlier suspicions are confirmed––the most recent conversation is between Raven Reyes and Kyle Wick.

She snorts, tapping the phone so she can snoop around in their conversation while Raven pays for her supplies.

"Delete that," a low voice demands hotly, and Clarke glances up. The hot, angry looking cashier is still directing his lethal gaze straight at her.

"Delete what?" she echoes. Raven's digging around in her wallet for her debit card, but Clarke notices her movements slow as she takes in the standoff happening between Clarke and the cashier.

"I saw the flash," he retorts. "I'm not an idiot. Delete the picture of me you just took."

She's vaguely aware of Raven slowly swiping her card through the machine and starting to load her books into her backpack, but she can't look away from the guy.

His name-tag reads _Bellamy B, _and angry is, unfortunately, a really good look for him. He's leaning forward over the counter, glaring at her, and now that he's up close and personal she suddenly notices the freckles that are dusted all over his face and down his neck. She wonders if _all _of his skin is freckled, or if not, how far down they go.

"I didn't take a picture of you," she denies, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah? Then let me see your phone." He holds out his hand expectantly. Clarke opens her mouth and turns to tell Raven to explain, but Raven's disappeared. She can just make out Raven's dark ponytail ducking out of the bookstore.

_Seriously, Raven?_

"Um," Clarke says, a blush blooming in her cheeks as she tries to remember if Raven had actually managed to take the picture. But she had left the app too quickly, and she has no idea what he'll find if she hands the phone over.

So instead, she tries to explain.

"Well, you see, _I _didn't take a picture of you. My friend did."

"Your friend?" His voice is skeptical. "Right."

"No, it's true!" she says. "She was the one who just bought all of the engineering textbooks. This is her phone. See?" Clarke holds up Raven's phone so he can see what the protective case says: _Get in losers, we're going to do science._

"I'm terrible at science," she adds earnestly, and waves her novel at him. "I almost failed chemistry in high school. Clarke Griffin: Books. Art. That's me. No science. Honestly, what even is science? I don't even know."

For the first time, he cracks a smile, and the way it transforms his face––well, if Clarke would have loved to draw him scowling, she just might kill to draw him smiling. She smiles hesitantly back.

"Well, Clarke Griffin––" he starts to say, but he's interrupted.

"Get a room or get going, blondie!"

They both turn and look back at the line of students; an irritated-looking guy with a frat t-shirt, red eyes, and a greenish complexion is the next in line, and he's motioning at them to hurry up.

"We've all got shit to buy," he says. Clarke decides that Bellamy B. is really the only one who can pull off an attractive scowl; this other guy just looks constipated as well as hungover.

"Can I see that phone now?" Bellamy B. asks abruptly, ignoring Frat Guy. Clarke looks at him in surprise––does he really care about the snapchat thing?––but hands it over.

But all he does is press the home button so that the phone lights up.

"Three o'clock," he says in a satisfied tone, and hands it back to her. "My shift is over."

He pulls off the name tag and shoves it in his pocket, grabs his phone and wallet from where they were apparently stashed under the counter, and then calls over his shoulder to the harried girl he was working with.

"Maya, I'm out! You good here?"

A chorus of angry mutters erupt from the waiting line as they realize one of the two cashiers on duty is about to leave, but the other girl just waves him away.

"Get out of here before they riot, Blake," she says. "Jasper's going to be here in fifteen."

Clarke watches as he nods and hops over the counter instead of lifting up the divider and walking out like a normal person. He lands right in front of her, and he seems even taller when he's this close.

"You should probably head out, too, Clarke Griffin, or they might just burn you at the stake," he tells her. "Luring me away from my post and all."

Clarke raises her eyebrows. "I'm _luring _you away?"

(It's not that she would _mind _luring him, now that he's not snarling at her and is actually still looking at her with that smile she likes so much. She just hasn't made the effort yet.)

"Absolutely," he tells her. "Probably to the coffee shop, so we can talk about why you have your friend's phone, and about books and art and not-science."

"Oh, really?" she says, unable to keep the grin from her face or the pink from her cheeks.

"That's just the vibe I'm getting," Bellamy replies. "I could be wrong, though." He looks a little nervous, and if Angry-Bellamy is hot, and Smiling-Bellamy is divine, Nervous-Bellamy is downright adorable.

"No," Clarke says. "I think you're probably right."


	3. Partners

Prompt from anonymous on tumblr: "43. Bellarke: falling in love with their best friend's partner (like police partner maybe)"

* * *

Clarke's known Bellamy Blake for four years now, ever since he was partnered with Raven.

She's been in love with him for three.

_Not_ that she's told him that.

He drives her up the _wall_, and always has, ever since that first _princess_ slipped out of his mouth when they met. That first year, it seemed like he brought a different girl with him every time their group of friends met up for drinks.

He stopped bringing them after a while, but Clarke's still not sure how she managed to develop _feelings_ for the idiot when he always seemed to have his tongue down some other woman's throat.

That's a lie. She knows exactly when and how.

It was when Raven was shot during what was supposed to be a routine visit to a suspect's house for questioning. They'd only been partners for ten months, and didn't have a fraction of the rapport that some of the more seasoned partners in their precinct did, but Bellamy didn't hesitate. When given the choice, he let the suspect get away and instead held Raven in his arms until the paramedics got there. Once she was on her way to the hospital, he called Clarke and told her what happened.

"He got her in the back, Clarke," he had told her. "But she's still breathing."

One of her biggest fears ever since Raven entered the police academy was that her best friend would be hurt, or killed, and Clarke wouldn't find out until it was too late. Somehow, Bellamy had found that out, and instead he made sure that she was the first to know that Raven was going to be okay.

After that, Raven wasn't the only cop Clarke worried about.

And now, he's gone and proved her worry justified.

"You stupid idiot," she whispers to him even as she strokes the back of his hand with her thumb. "_I_ could have told you he'd have a weapon stashed somewhere."

Any lower, the doctor had said, and the knife would have slipped straight between the ribs instead of hitting bone and stopping short of anything vital.

Any lower and he would have died.

As it is, the stab wound was enough to slow him and allow the attacker to slam his head into a brick wall. The combination of the two injuries is enough to have him in a hospital bed at least overnight.

"Clarke?" Raven calls softly from the doorway. "I'm going to head out. You need anything?" To her credit, she doesn't question the way Clarke is clinging to Bellamy's hand, or that Clarke makes no move to follow Raven home. Clarke wouldn't be surprised if _everyone_ except for Bellamy Idiot Blake knew about her feelings for him.

"No, I'm good," Clarke replies. "I'm going to stick around for a while."

"I'll bring you some food in the morning," Raven replies. "Try to get some rest, okay?" She glances at Bellamy one more time and then closes the door quietly behind her.

His hand is cooler in hers than she'd like, cooler than she remembers from those times they danced at the precinct's Christmas parties, cooler than she remembers from that time they all went hiking together in the mountains, and she slipped on loose dirt and he caught her around the waist before she could fall, palm burning against her skin where her top had ridden up. Cooler than Bellamy Blake's hand has any right to be.

"Stupid," she mumbles again, and closes her eyes against the treacherous sting of tears.

"Who're you callin' stupid," she hears, and she opens her eyes to see Bellamy smiling crookedly at her, eyelids drooping as he struggles to watch her.

"You," she says, making no effort to hide the shaking of her voice. "You're the stupidest man on the face of the planet, and I want to know what I did in another life to get stuck with you."

"Aw, come on, princess," he slurs. "That's not nice."

"I don't care," she says. "It's the truth."

His fingers tighten around hers, and she can't help but let out a tremulous sigh. The doctor had told her he was just resting, that neither of his injuries were in any way life-threatening, but until Bellamy opened his eyes and talked to her, she couldn't quite believe him.

"Sorry," he says. He's opening and closing his eyes with slow, heavy blinks. "But y'know you love me."

"Yeah," Clarke agrees, heart in her throat. "Unfortunately, I do."

"Really?" he asks, his eyes staying closed now. "Good."

That surprises a laugh out of Clarke. "Good?" she echoes. "Why good?"

"Good, 'cause I love you too," he sighs, and slips back into sleep with a silly little grin on his lips that matches the one spreading across Clarke's face.


	4. Chocolate Volcano

From anonymous on tumblr: "Can you do the chocolate volcano prompt with bellarke?" AKA "im a bartender and you just came in here without shoes sat down and ordered a chocolate volcano and idk what the fuck that is and im scared to ask"

* * *

He doesn't notice her when she walks through the door, not immediately, but he absolutely notices her when Miller taps him on the arm and nods to a pair of women who have just started heading toward the bar.

"What do you think her deal is?" Miller asks. At first, Bellamy doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. They look like a normal enough duo of women, a blonde and a brunette all decked out in sparkly clothes and heavy-looking necklaces. But then he sees it––the brunette is towering over the blonde in her high heels, while the blonde is striding along in completely bare feet. The blonde's not even carrying her shoes in her hands, like some women do when they're leaving the bar at the end of the night, and she doesn't have a bag big enough to stow shoes in.

She just…doesn't have shoes. At all.

And it doesn't look like she cares, either, because her eyes are bright and her smile is nearly blinding when she laughs at something her friend says.

"Hi!" she says, sliding onto a stool right across from Bellamy, her friend taking a seat to her right. Miller gestures that he's going to cover the other end of the bar and retreats.

"Evening," Bellamy replies, hiding his grin. "What can I get you?"

"Martini with a twist," the brunette says. As he grabs the gin, he raises an eyebrow at the blonde.

"For you?" he asks.

The brunette elbows the blonde in the side with a snicker.

"I would like a chocolate volcano," the blonde says decisively.

Bellamy stares at her. "A chocolate volcano?" he echoes. What the _fuck _is a chocolate volcano?

Grounders is known for its generous ratios of alcohol to mixers, its extensive variety of beers on tap, and for hosting the only weekly Retro Night in town that manages to actually turn a profit.

It is _not _a bar known for fancy, frilly, or freaky sounding drinks. But the look on the blonde's face is hopeful and her eyes are a luminous blue and he doesn't really want to tell her no.

She nods sharply. "Chocolate volcano," she drawls, stretching out the last 'O' in a way he's embarrassed to realize he likes (a lot). "Hit me, alcohol man." She punctuates her request with a smack to the bar, and the brunette snorts.

"Well, I'm a bartender, not a blackjack dealer, and you can call me Bellamy," he says as he turns his back and surreptitiously pulls his phone out of his pocket. "But I'll do my best," he adds skeptically, clicking the first google result: _chocolate lava volcano cocktail drink._

"Thanks, Bellamy," she says. "I'm Clarke, and this is Raven."

It calls for chocolate ice cream––seriously, this is a _bar_, he doesn't keep fucking chocolate _ice cream _hidden behind the Fireball––so he improvises to the best of his ability. He mixes a couple of different liqueurs with an ample amount of vodka, shakes it with ice, pours it into a chilled martini glass, and hopes for a miracle when he sets it in front of her.

"One chocolate volcano," he says, and watches her out of the corner of his eye while he hands the martini to Raven.

Clarke takes a sip, and then to his relief she raises her eyebrows in surprise and takes another big gulp.

"Yummy," she says.

Her friend takes a healthy sip of her own cocktail, taps Clarke on the shoulder, and points at Bellamy. He's slightly alarmed by the smirk that crosses her lips, and the widening of Clarke's eyes in response.

"Really?" Clarke asks, cheeks faintly pink.

"Really," Raven responds. "Catch you on the flip side, Clarke." She slides off her stool and saunters off to flirt with a blond man at the other end of the room.

He and Clarke are left staring at each other across the bar. Bellamy's grateful that Wednesdays are never very busy, and he doesn't have to leave her to go serve other patrons.

"So," he says. "Chocolate volcano your signature drink or something?"

She snorts. Fuck, even that's cute when she does it.

"I lost a bet with my friend," she admits, and his interest is piqued.

"What about?" he asks, propping his elbows on the bar and leaning forward.

He's strangely charmed when Clarke stares down at her drink, avoiding his eyes. "About whether or not it's canon in the _Harry Potter _series that muggle technology doesn't work around magic." She mumbles the words, but Bellamy gets every single one.

"I see." He pauses. "It's canon. Right there in _Hogwarts, a History._" Her head pops up, and he grins at the expression on her face as she realizes that he may or may not be as well-versed in the _Harry Potter _series as she apparently is.

They came out while O was growing up and she insisted that they read every single one together. He _may _have read them again on his own. Once or twice.

"See, that's what _I _said!" she exclaims. "But then Raven argued that _Hogwarts, a History _only refers to Hogwarts grounds, and I couldn't definitively say that technology doesn't work around any magical place."

"I guess I've never thought about that," he says. "Seems like a technicality, though."

"A technicality that meant Raven won," Clarke says, and swallows the last of the crazy cocktail.

"So what did she win?" Bellamy asks.

"I had to complete three tasks of her choosing tonight, or else pay her the equivalent of ten galleons."

"Let me guess," Bellamy says. "First task: you go out without shoes."

Clarke laughs. "Yeah. First she tried to get me to go out with no shirt, but thankfully I convinced her that would be more illegal than funny. So, shoes."

Bellamy does his best not to imagine Clarke topless instead of shoeless, but it doesn't work very well. To distract himself from thoughts of her smooth, creamy skin being revealed, he keeps talking.

"The second task––a crazy drink order, right?"

Clarke nods. "Raven picked the drink. I was impressed with what you came up with," she says, gesturing at her empty glass. "I have no idea what the hell a chocolate volcano even is."

"What's the third task?" he asks.

Her lips curl up into a smile at the same time her hand reaches out and curls into the collar of his shirt.

"This," she says.

"Um," is all he manages to get out before she's yanking him forward and planting her lips on his. It's a little awkward, leaning over the bar, but her mouth is shockingly cold and sweet and he can't help the needy little groan he makes in the back of his throat when she opens her lips and traces his tongue with her own.

"I don't think that's very sanitary behavior," he hears Miller say dryly, and he doesn't even bother to stop kissing Clarke as he offers Miller a middle finger.

Eventually, they _have_ to pull apart to breathe, and Clark's hooded eyes and flushed skin and swollen mouth have him swallowing hard as warmth pools in his stomach.

"That was for the bet," she reminds him, and he hopes his face doesn't fall like his heart does. "I had to kiss the person Raven pointed at."

(It was a _damn _good kiss, and it just won't be fair if that's the only one he's ever going to get from her.)

"Oh," he says lamely, and then her fingers slide from his collar until they're cupping the back of his neck.

"This one's just because," she tells him, and when she kisses him again, he's the one who's smiling.


	5. Runescape

Prompt from sadgirlokay on tumblr: "we both play this stupid game online and you keep beating me every single goddamn time so i called you out and you are pretty cute but can you not"

* * *

It's a bit of a guilty pleasure, a holdover from her middle school days. But sometimes when Clarke needs a break from work, she's just not in the mood for yoga or reading or watching hair tutorials on YouTube. So at those times, she packs up her laptop, heads to the internet café down the street, and settles into one of the comfiest chairs in The Dripship for a well-deserved Runescape break.

She's had the same screenname since she was thirteen and her computer class partner showed her how to get past the school's embarrassingly weak firewall and introduced her to the game.

(That was the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship with Monty Green, but that's a story for a different time.)

Now, whenever the paint and the canvas and her brushes just don't want to cooperate, she quells her frustration and clears her mind with a couple rounds of combat in the Wilderness. The player vs. player zone was the perfect place for her to start leveling up when she got tired of killing off imps for practice, and Clarke's gotten pretty good at kicking ass and taking names, if she says so herself. After a decade on the game, she can take out pretty much anyone she wants to.

Except him.

Today Clark's logged into Runescape because her landscape is coming out more of a bloody desert than a gentle sunrise, and goddamned Cerberus2126 has just ambushed her in the Wilderness.

_Again._

It's like he fucking waits for her to enter the pvp zone just so he can target her. He's killed her no fewer than forty-seven times since he dropped out of the sky a few weeks ago, and she's taken to keeping all but her most used items in the bank so he can't take her shit when he kills her.

_Seriously_, why does he always try to kill her? She's killed him a few times, too, but only because those times _she _was the one doing the ambushing. But it's usually Cerberus2126 launching at her out of nowhere and Clarke battling for her life.

Clarke scowls as her health levels rapidly deplete and attacks back, typing one-handed in the chat bar while her fingers fly over the trackpad.

_**Princessery**: back OFF, cerberus_

_**Cerberus2126**: last i checked, i don't take orders from you, princess_

That's another thing that pisses her off. He never gets her screenname right. It's literally _right there on the screen_, but he insists on pissing her off. For some reason, he's made it his life's mission to rile her up, and for what? A token moment of amusement over the internet?

Clarke growls at her computer when he scores another big hit. "What's _wrong with you_?" she hisses at the avatar that's currently bashing hers with a sword.

"Mind keeping it down?" she hears. She risks a glance to her right, where another regular sits in his usual spot. His fingers are busily moving over his own keyboard, and she guesses from the familiar Ark University hoodie he's got on that he's working on a paper or something. Grad student, probably, given the fact that he looks a good handful of years older than she is.

"Sorry," she says, feeling a little guilty about disrupting him; his dark eyes flicker to hers and they crinkle at the corners a bit when he offers her a little grin.

"No problem," he replies, and then punctuates his words with a particular hard tap to his keyboard.

Just then, Cerberus2126 kills her. Kills her absolutely dead, and Clarke's lost all but her three most valuable items from her inventory.

True, all he does end up getting from her is a cooked chicken, a couple of spare helmets, and a log, but it's the principle of the thing.

Her avatar respawns elsewhere, and the second she does, she opens a private chat with Cerberus2126.

_**Princessery**: what's your problem?_

_**Cerberus2126**: i'm pretty sure you're the one with the problem, seeing as i just killed you for the forty-eighth time  
_

_**Cerberus2126**: maybe you need more practice_

Clarke lets out a wordless growl of frustration.

_**Princessery**: or MAYBE you could stop being an ASSHAT_

The guy sitting next to her snorts at something, and she's briefly distracted by the way he's smirking at the screen, one corner of his mouth quirked up and his entire face oh-so-drawable.

The freckles alone would take her _ages _to get right. But she's always liked a challenge, she thinks. (And, okay, maybe it's not the first time she's noticed him at The Dripship. He's there just as often as she is, and it's hard to miss that hair and those cheekbones and that _jaw_. God, that jaw.)

And then he looks directly at her, catches her _looking _at him and she whips her head back to gaze determinedly at her laptop screen. Her cheeks burn while she notices that Cerberus2126 has said nothing while she's been distracted, and Clarke sighs.

She doesn't really feel like heading back into the Wilderness right now, and she's also just humiliated herself with the ridiculously hot freckled guy after weeks of keeping her interest in him on the down low, so Clarke takes Cerberus2126′s murder of her as a sign to pack things up for the day.

She closes her laptop, slips her things into her bag, and stands to leave. The direct path to the door is blocked by some long-haired idiot who's brought his bicycle into the actual café and leaned it up against his table, so Clarke has to backtrack and wind around the back of the shop to get to the exit.

As she skirts behind hot freckled guy's chair, she glances down and stops dead when she sees his computer screen. It's a familiar view, all pixelated trees and people, and Clarke can't quite believe her eyes. Hot freckled guy is most definitely _not _working on a paper.

"You play Runescape?" she finds herself blurting out; he startles in his seat and tilts his head back so he can see her. Clarke blames her fascination with his jaw for the fact that she notices the minute movement of his throat as he realizes she's behind him.

"Uh," he says. "No." He shifts a little in his seat, and Clarke frowns.

"I can see it on your screen," she replies. "Like, right there."

His hands go to close the lid to his laptop, but before he can hide the screen, Clarke sees it. Down in the bottom of the screen, in the chat box, his username.

Fucking _Cerberus2126_.

Clarke's aware that her mouth has dropped open and that hot freckled guy––_asshat freckled guy_––is standing and shoving his things into his own backpack.

"Oh my god!" she exclaims, rounding the chair until she's right in front of him. "You asshole, this is how you always knew when to ambush me!"

When she pokes him in the chest to punctuate her words, he looks sheepish and offers her a grin that reminds her of the way Wells looked when they were both six and he told her he broke her plastic stethoscope.

It's not right that such a little-boy-grin can look so hot on a grown man's face, but Clarke doesn't allow herself to be distracted by it.

(Much.)

"Come on, princess, it's not that big a deal," he says. "Just a little friendly fun."

"Okay, first, I don't even know your name," she says. "Second, friends don't murder friends forty-eight times."

"My name's Bellamy," he says, and when she tries to poke him the chest again he instead seizes her hand in his, giving it a firm shake.

"It's polite to tell me your name back, princess," he tells her, and she narrows her eyes at him. _He _is going to tell _her _what's _polite_?

"Forty. Eight. Times," she reminds him, ignoring her tingling palm. "I can't believe you game-stalked me!"

Bellamy looks a little panicked at that. "I wouldn't say _stalked_,"he saysquickly, nervously.

Clarke hides her smile and crosses her arms over her chest.

"I saw you playing a while ago and thought it might be fun to try and find you in the game," Bellamy says. "Which, as I say it now, sounds a little stalkerish. But I swear, it was just for fun, playing with another player I could see. And then I just…got kind of carried away." He trails off and looks at her with a pleading expression.

"Kind of?" she echoes dryly.

"I _am_ sorry," he says, his voice genuinely contrite now. "Can I––Can I make it up to you somehow?"

"How are you going to make up for killing me forty-eight times?" Clarke asks skeptically.

"Dinner?" he asks. "To start?"

"Oh," Clarke replies. The smile on his face wavers a little at her surprise, but he keeps watching her expectantly, waiting for her answer.

"My name's Clarke," she says eventually, and his face lights up with another one of those adorable grins. "And you _do _owe me a cooked chicken."

"That's just today's loot, princess," Bellamy says. "If you add up all the inventory I ever stole from you, it'll take me ages to make everything up to you."

She smiles when he gestures for her to precede him out of the café.

"Then I guess you'd better get started."

* * *

He doesn't ever stop ambushing her in the game, but he doesn't stop making it up to her either. And, Clarke discovers, Bellamy Blake is _very _good at making things up to her.


	6. Boulder

Prompt from anonymous on tumblr: "'Bellamy, what did you do to your hand?' 'There was a boulder trapping you.' 'And you tried to fight it?'"

This takes place in a vague and optimistic canon-divergent future because of obvious reasons.

* * *

The old _Trigedakru _trap that Clarke's stuck in this time is even more impressive than the spiked pit she nearly fell into when they went looking for Jasper, way back when they first got to the ground.

This one's not immediately deadly, a fact for which Clarke is grateful. Instead, she's just _literally _trapped in a little pit, the entrance blocked by a substantial boulder. Clarke started trying to get it to budge ever since she toppled into the trap and the boulder came crashing behind her, but with no luck.

She can hear Monty and Miller outside, and every now and then she can just hear an indistinct word or a grunt as they try from their side of the trap. She hasn't heard Monroe since just after Clarke was able to make enough noise for the others to know she was still alive and unhurt. They've probably sent her for help; Monroe's the fastest of the three.

Clarke wishes she could tell Miller and Monty to stop trying to get her out, to keep searching for the stupid plant the four of them came all the way out here to find, because there's no way in hell just the two of them are going to get her out and they might as well do something useful.

She hears voices again, but this time she straightens up as best as she's able in the tiny little pit.

She'd know his voice anywhere.

There are other new voices, murmuring in the background, but it's his she focuses on, barking out orders that she can't make out and he's close_, so close _on the other side of the trap.

"Bellamy," she says, though she knows he can't hear her through the boulder unless she screams, and presses a palm to the rock; she can feel the vibrations through the stone as they do something to it on the other side.

"Clarke!" is the first thing she hears clearly when the trap is finally breached and light pours into the tiny pit. Clarke stands, stretching her legs for the first time in hours, but before she can call up to her rescue party, strong arms reach down and haul her out.

She stumbles into him when he sets her on her feet, but Bellamy's too distracted with checking her for injury to care.

"You alright?" he asks, hands stroking from her neck to her arms and down to her wrists. Behind him, she can see the others packing up the equipment they used to pry the boulder out of its spot. Monroe gives her a little nod, her cheeks still flushed from running, and Clarke smiles before turning her attention back to Bellamy.

"A little wobbly. Pins and needles in my legs. But I'm fine, Bellamy," Clarke says. She lets him prod her for a few more moments, knowing she would be doing the same thing if _he _had been the one stuck in a trap for hours.

"Hey," she says when he doesn't stop. "I'm _fine._" She bats his hands away, and he makes a strangled little noise and puts a hand behind his back.

"Yeah," he says in an odd tone. "Sorry. I'm glad you're okay."

Clarke eyes him, and he lifts his gaze to the sky.

"We should probably get going," he notes. "It'll get dark soon."

"Right..." Clarke says slowly. "Bellamy, what did you do to your hand?"

"Nothing," he says, wiggling his left hand in front of her face. She rolls her eyes and pulls at his arm until he reveals his right hand.

"Bellamy!" she exclaims, grabbing his fingers in hers. He lets out a hiss and tries to jerk it away from her, but she doesn't let go. Instead she just shifts her grip to his wrist so she's not hurting him.

"The pinky's broken for sure," she says, examining the swelling and bloodied fingers. "What did you do?"

He sighs, then winces when she prods his middle finger gently.

"There was a boulder trapping you," he mutters.

Clarke pauses to stare at him. "And you tried to fight it?" she asked. He looks away from her, shoulders stiff, and she tries to keep quiet.

But the laughter bubbles up and out of her throat, and the woods echo with her giggles.

"Screw you, Clarke," Bellamy says, trying again to pry his hand out of her hold.

"Hey, hey," she says in surprise, her brow furrowing. "What's going on with you?" She doesn't let go of him still, and traces her thumb back and forth over the back of his hand––the only uninjured part of it.

"Bellamy. Look at me," she coaxes, and finally he does. The fear and anger and anguish on his face makes her breath catch in her lungs, and she steps closer to him automatically. "What is it?"

His dark eyes don't leave hers, and his voice is rough when he tells her, "Monroe could barely breathe when she ran into camp. At first I thought she was saying you were dead."

Clarke has to close her own eyes, all humor gone from her now. She knows what it feels like to think Bellamy's dead. If he felt anything like that, even if only for a moment, she's not going to laugh at him for it.

She leans forward, rests her forehead against his sternum. "I'm sorry," she says. She can feel Bellamy breathe in, feel him sigh as he carefully pulls his hand away from hers so he can wrap his arms around her and hold her tight to him. Her own hands find their way around his waist.

"I'm alright now," she tells him, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and metal that clings to him. Clarke feels him press a kiss against her hair.

"Yeah," Bellamy says. "I'm alright now, too."


	7. Undercover

From anonymous on tumblr: "Clarke's new neighbor is smart, charming, and handsome. Unfortunately she's also pretty sure he works for the local crime ring. Bellamy's falling for Clarke; unfortunately he's an undercover cop investigating her for ties to local crime ring."

* * *

Clarke should have sold her parents' house in the oldest, wealthiest suburb of Arkadia as soon as she inherited it. But with her parents both gone, it's all she had left of them, so she decides to keep living in the big old mansion at least until she finishes her residency at Arkadia Memorial.

And by the time she realizes that the Wallaces are moving in next door, it's too late to sell. No one wants to buy the house anymore, or any house in the neighborhood, and that's how Clarke gets stuck living next door to the biggest crime family in Arkadia.

She's mostly convinced herself it's not so bad, now finished with her residency and working as a general practitioner in the smaller clinic across town. In general they're quiet neighbors, and their yard is tidy. She keeps the shades closed at night so she's not an unwilling witness to something that would get her thrown into the witness protection program, or maybe killed. So, not all bad, she tells herself.

Clarke does have to interact with them a little bit, whenever she makes house calls to check on Maya's health. Cage's little sister is in remission, but still needs check-ups; Clarke counts herself grateful that Maya is the _only _patient Dante has insisted she see. She has no desire to become a mob doctor.

But Maya is sweet, and young, and Clarke is pretty positive that her brother and father keep her far away from any of their less-than-legal proceedings. That means that Clarke is kept away from them too, and the only "employees" of theirs she ever meets are the men who serve as Maya's bodyguards.

The newest one is the bane of her existence. All the others until now have been always older, always stoic, and always utterly unattractive to Clarke.

Bellamy is only a few years older than Clarke, he always has a smirk and a wink ready for her, and from the moment she first met him, Clarke has wanted nothing more than to jump his bones.

"Evening, princess," he greets her when she walks into Maya's room that day. It's time for Maya's monitor, and Clarke ignores him while she greets Maya and starts prepping her arm to draw a blood sample for the lab.

"Bellamy's been wondering where you've been," Maya tells her, not even wincing as Clarke slides the needle into her vein. "You're a little later than normal."

"Oh?" Clarke says, watching her hands and determinedly refusing to look at the devious little smile on Maya's face.

"Thought you might have seen another patient before Maya," Bellamy comments in his stupid, deep voice that never fails to turn Clarke into a tangle of need.

"I've told you before, Bellamy," Clarke says, concealing the waver of her voice with a sigh. "Maya is the _only_ patient I see outside of work."

"You're a bleeding heart, princess," Bellamy drawls. "I find it hard to believe you wouldn't help anyone who needed it."

Reason number four Maya's newest bodyguard is the bane of her existence: he has never, _ever _called her by her name. It's always been _princess_, from the very start. You would _think_ that a man who regularly tosses out allusions to classical mythology and can help Maya with her calculus homework would be capable of remembering her single syllable _name, _Clarke thinks.

"Why don't you ever stick around the house, princess?"

Apparently not. Clarke glances up at Bellamy as she unwraps the tourniquet from Maya's upper arm.

"I have no reason to stick around," she says, raising a brow. "Between Maya and my clinic, I barely have time to sleep, let alone waste time hanging out here when my own house is two minutes away."

She thinks she sees a flash of satisfaction, but his face is back in its usual smirk before she can say for sure.

"It's hardly wasting time if it's time spent with me," he says with a teasing grin, and when Maya giggles Clarke can't help but laugh a little, too.

"Nice try, but I'm pretty sure my pajamas and Netflix offer me a better time," Clarke retorts.

The expression on his face is delighted. "Well, I'll just have to work on changing your mind about that, won't I?"

Before Clarke can respond, his phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket. Whatever the message says, he doesn't like, and his face is the face of a different man when he looks back at Maya.

"You two good for a minute?" he asks. "Your father needs me."

Maya nods and waves him away, and he doesn't spare them a second glance before he's out of the room, door shut behind him.

Clarke swallows, pushes away thoughts of what he's been summoned away by Dante to do, busies herself with wrapping Maya's elbow with a cotton ball and bright purple bandaging tape.

"I think he likes you, Clarke," Maya says with a knowing smile.

Clarke smiles back, though it fades quickly.

It doesn't––can't––matter if he does. It can't matter how much he makes her laugh, or feel, or _want; _Clarke Griffin could never let herself be with a man who lived the kind of life he does.

* * *

Clarke's supposed to check on Maya in two weeks, but she never gets the chance.

Instead, Maya's removed from the Wallaces' household and placed into protective custody until she can testify against her family's crime ring; Dante and Cage and dozens of others are arrested on countless charges; and Bellamy the bodyguard turns out to be Bellamy the undercover cop, not only investigating the Wallaces but investigating _her_, of all people, because she couldn't help but treat a sixteen-year-old girl.

Clarke was barricaded inside her house until the raid was over and an officer came to her home and explained. For a split second after Officer Miller's explanation, she'd been elated that the man she was halfway in love with wasn't a mobster. And then she had realized that the man she was halfway in love with was apparently a lie, a cover for his investigation.

Now that the street is quiet and all is supposed to be safe, Clarke's not inclined to be polite when she wrenches the door open in response to loud knocks at three in the morning.

"_What––_Bellamy?" she demands as Bellamy nearly crashes into her.

He just stares at her for a minute, and it's both funny and painful that she still seems to be able to read the relief in his face and the tension in his shoulders.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," he says eventually, eyes still drinking her in.

"I'm fine," she says. "Looks like you are, too. So you can leave now."

He looks stricken, and she ignores the way the guilt pulls at her, deep in her belly. "Princess, just let me––"

"No!" she says, and punches him in the arm. "I don't have to let you do anything. I don't even know you!"

He catches her fist in his when she tries to hit him again, and his hands are gentle as he pries her fingers apart and slips his own between them.

"You do," he says. "You do know me, princess. But if you don't believe me, you should at least give me a chance to prove it."

Clarke draws in a shuddering breath, and doesn't speak.

"My real name's Bellamy Blake," he tells her. "I have a little sister named Octavia, a one-eyed dog named Cyclops, I'm roommates with another cop in a shitty apartment across town, and I want to take you on a date."

Clarke can only stare at him, open-mouthed. "Wh-what?"

"_Clarke." _He uses his grasp on her hand to tug her closer until she stumbles into him, and she realizes that's the first time he's ever let himself say her name. "I'll tell you everything about me, I _swear_. Just––just give me a chance."

"You named your one-eyed dog Cyclops?" she asks, and he frowns.

"That's what you got from that?"

Classical mythology and calculus, she remembers, and a tiny bud of hope blossoms in her chest.

"So you really _are _a huge mythology nerd?" she says, and he lets out a surprised laugh.

"That's what my sister tells me," Bellamy replies. "But you should find out for yourself."

"Okay," she says.

"Okay?" he echoes, face hopeful.

Clarke smiles. "Pick me up at seven."

* * *

Bellamy Blake is, in fact, a huge nerd. Even better, she finds out, he's a huge nerd who can kiss her until all she knows is him.


	8. Sunbathing

From jasminenightshade on tumblr: "Raven and Clarke are sunbathing / tanning topless and Wick and Bellamy happen upon them. Now this can be an AU or canon verse. Either is fine!"

* * *

One of Clarke's favorite things about her and Raven's new apartment is the terrace. The fact that they're on the top floor, and that the railing is a half-wall instead of fencing, means that no one can see when they're stretched out on their lounge chairs, soaking in the early summer sun.

Which, you know, is kind of a requirement when you soak in the sun while topless.

"Hit me," Raven mumbles, eyes blissfully closed and holding out a hand in Clarke's direction. Clarke obliges and hands her a bottle of iced tea, then busies herself with adjusting her bikini bottoms. Bellamy does this _thing_ with his mouth wherever she gets tan lines––he can't seem to resist them––and she wants to make sure her bikini is perfectly placed for a crisp transition between the tanned skin of the rest of her body and, well, the only untanned part.

Just then, the sliding door to the terrace opens, and Clarke squeaks and covers her breasts with an arm. Raven's lying belly-down on her lounge chair, everything important hidden, and she raises an eyebrow at the sight of her boyfriend.

"Sorry, sorry!" Wick says, whirling around so his back is to Clarke. "I didn't know!"

"What are you talking about?" Clarke can hear Bellamy say as he approaches the sliding door. They must have used the spare keys Raven and Clarke gave them to get into the apartment.

"Wick––? Oh."

Clarke can feel her cheeks heat with more than just the sun when Bellamy stops abruptly in the doorway and stares at her, eyes traveling from her pink-painted toes to her eyes and then back again.

"Is this what they do when we're not around?" Wick hisses at Bellamy, back still turned.

Raven snickers. "Don't be such a twelve-year-old boy about it, Kyle." She moves to sit up, and Bellamy clears his throat and whirls around too. Raven grabs her coverup and tosses Clarke's to her.

Once they're both dressed, Clarke asks, "What are you guys doing here?"

Bellamy peeks back over his shoulder, and upon seeing her clothed, he taps Wick on the arm and they face the girls. "We thought you might be hungry. Brought sandwiches from that deli you like so much."

"Didn't know you'd be naked," Wick announces. "Didn't realize this was that kind of place. No offense, but I didn't really want to see Clarke like that."

Clarke raises an eyebrow, but smiles. "None taken."

Raven punches Wick in the arm. "That's what you get for not calling ahead," she tells him, and then stands on her tiptoes to plant a smacking kiss on his mouth.

Bellamy steps over to Clarke and winds his arms around her waist. She loops her arms around his neck in return. "Hi."

"Hi," he says, a smile curving his lips. "Do this often?"

She gives him a wicked grin. "Often enough to maintain those tan lines you like so––" Clarke can't say anything else with his mouth covering hers, but she likes it too much to mind.

(And later, _he_ really, _really _likes her tan lines.)


	9. Murder Gorilla

From anonymous on tumblr: "Clarke is being chased by the murder gorilla and Bellamy tries to rescue her."

* * *

When Bellamy hears Clarke's scream, he takes off running. It doesn't matter that he's in the middle of giving orders for the repairs of the camp wall, or that he only has a handgun tucked into the waistband of his pants, or that it's a really fucking stupid idea to run off alone into the woods, and if anyone else did it he would kick their ass.

But it's Clarke's voice, and he doesn't think he's ever heard her scream like that. And he doesn't ever want to hear her scream like that again.

So he runs.

She wasn't supposed to go far; she had taken a gun of her own and wandered off into the trees to look for a mushroom or something that was supposed to be good for treating rashes.

As he gets closer to where the scream originated, he notices signs of wildlife––_big _wildlife––all throughout the area. His heart stutters in his chest as he remembers what Clarke told him during one of their ritual nightly talks, about the mutant, murderous gorilla that attacked her and the commander. Her voice had been steady as she told him about the creature, but her hand had trembled in his as they lay tangled in their blankets.

"Clarke?" he calls, searching for a glimpse of her golden hair. His gun is pointed at the ground, but every muscle in his body is tensed, prepared to aim and fire if he sees the gorilla. Even as he feels sick when Clarke doesn't call back to him, and though his head pounds and his lungs seem to be sluggish, he's ready to kill the fucking thing on sight.

"_Clarke_."

He doesn't care that it's a plea more than anything this time.

"Clarke!"

A furious, inhuman scream rips through the air, followed by a rapid burst of gunshots.

Bellamy bursts through the trees and finally, _finally _sees Clarke, and she's standing and not dead and unhurt and not dead and pale and she's _not dead not dead not dead. _

He glances at the twitching body of the gorilla on the ground in front of her. It's clear that Clarke's mortally wounded it, and it's not about to go anywhere, but he fires his gun until the clip is empty.

"I think it was dead after your first shot," Clarke says tightly as he shoves the gun back in his waistband.

"I don't care," he says, and pulls her into his arms.

He buries his face in her hair, and some part of him thinks it might be uncomfortable for Clarke, how tightly he's holding her, but her own arms are like metal bands around his body, and she doesn't make any move to pull away.


	10. First Kiss

From anonymous on tumblr: "Bellarke + first kiss"

Note: This gets a little steamy, but I think it's still safely in the T-rating. Please let me know your thoughts about it!

* * *

Clarke Griffin is twenty-three years old and has never been kissed.

It's like that stupid, awesome Drew Barrymore movie, except Clarke's extremely self-educated about human sexuality and it's not for a lack of wanting that she hasn't been kissed.

In fact, she's pretty sure it's an _excess _of wanting that's gotten her to twenty-three unkissed.

Specifically, wanting Bellamy Blake.

Sure, she's had other options. If she had _really _wanted to just get kissed and get it over with, she could have kissed Finn (though thank god she didn't, because after a month of Finn sniffing around Clarke, Raven turned up, and if Clarke _had _given in and kissed him, that could have turned out to be a major shitstorm).

Or Wells, because even though Clarke hadn't felt the same, she knows he would have forgiven her if she had taken advantage of his feelings for her to try out the kissing thing.

She'd come closest to getting her first kiss with Lexa, but though the other woman was beautiful, strong, and very attractive, Clarke couldn't get stupid Bellamy Blake out of her mind long enough to lock lips.

While Clarke has known Bellamy for the better part of a decade, Bellamy's spent that time patching up her scraped knees, scaring off potential prom dates with terrifying scowls, and in general completely failing to see how head-over-heels stupid in love with him Clarke is.

Her best friend's older brother is still oblivious to her feelings as well as her gaze as he putters around the kitchen she and Octavia share. He's staying with them while he's in town for Lincoln and Octavia's engagement party, and his proximity frustrates Clarke as much as ever. Octavia's out to brunch with Lincoln's family, trying to win over his scary-stoic mother and sister, and Bellamy and Clarke are alone.

"Do you want anything in your pancakes?" he asks, stirring a bowl of batter. "Blueberries, chocolate chips?"

Before Clarke can reply, he cuts her off. "No, you hate pancakes. Waffles are okay, though, right?"

Clarke blinks. "Yeah, waffles are fine."

"Then get out the waffle iron, princess," he says, a smirk on his lips. She rolls her eyes and slides off her stool. But the low cupboard where they store the waffle iron is directly across the kitchen from Bellamy, and Clarke pauses before she does as he asks.

"You alright there, Clarke?" he asks when she doesn't move.

Clarke considers him, then smiles slowly. "I'm fine."

She saunters across the linoleum floor, takes her time bending over at the waist as she pulls open the cabinet door and starts digging around for the waffle iron.

Hearing a clang, Clarke pictures Bellamy dropping the whisk into the metal mixing bowl. She might have picked these pajamas on purpose, maybe because the shorts are a size too small and tend to reveal the edges of her panties, and the camisole likes to ride up and bare her midriff.

Clarke knows it's not altogether sporting to appeal to a man's sexual urges, but she's been left without very many options after so many years of trying to get it through his stupid head that she's a_ woman, _not a little girl running around with his baby sister.

Sure, she could _tell him, _like Raven said when Clarke had partaken in a few too many margaritas and spilled her guts about her massive and varied collection of feelings for Bellamy Blake. But that also sounds like a recipe for fucking disaster, and Clarke's not too proud to admit she's chickenshit when it comes to her heart and Bellamy's monopoly on it.

"Got it," Clarke says, setting the iron on the counter and plugging it in.

"Great," Bellamy replies distractedly; when she turns around, Clarke is delighted to see that he actually _is_ fishing his whisk out of the gooey batter.

"Something startle you?" she asks, leaning against the counter. Her top's still bunched up, revealing her navel as the little shorts sit low on her hips and high on her thighs, and Clarke makes absolutely no move to change any of those things.

Bellamy glances up at her, his hands still in the bowl, and freezes for a moment. Then he snaps.

"Fucking hell, Clarke, put on some damn clothes!" His body looks tense, as if every part of him is coiled and prepared to strike.

Clarke's lips part a little in shock at the sudden change from the playful tone she's used to, to this––this––ferocity.

Then she narrows her eyes. She may be stupid in love with Bellamy Blake, but that doesn't mean he gets to tell her what the fuck to do.

"Fuck off," she says. "This is my apartment, and I'll wear whatever the hell I want."

A muscle in his jaw jumps.

"It's considered a courtesy to dress _decently _when you have guests," he says stiffly.

"Excuse me, Miss Manners, but I'll walk around naked before I'll let you tell me what to do," Clarke snaps.

"Put. On. Some. Clothes," he grits out.

Clarke glares at him, and deliberately grasps the drawstring of her shorts.

She's bluffing, of course; even if she undoes the string, the shorts are so snug they're not going anywhere.

"Clarke!"

She pulls sharply, and the little bow undoes itself.

Bellamy tosses the mixing bowl onto the counter, crosses the kitchen in a single stride, and pulls her into him with one batter-sticky hand on her back, the other on her face.

Holy _shit_, is this really how––

Yes, Clarke thinks, eyes fluttering closed as she registers the pressure of Bellamy's lips on hers. Yes, this is how Clarke Griffin gets kissed for the first time.

After the fierce way that he crossed the room and seized her, his lips are surprisingly gentle. It's not a soft kiss, not really, but it's not all clashing teeth and biting lips either.

Instead, it's a determined kind of kiss, and Clarke can't help the little noise she lets out when his tongue strokes firmly over her lips until she parts them.

He tastes like black tea and sugar, and somehow he already knows what Clarke likes best before she's even had time to form an opinion.

She is just starting to wonder if it's obvious that she's never done this before, and also how to breathe when her mouth is otherwise occupied, when Bellamy pulls away. His hair is even more rumpled than his usual bedhead makes it––oops, Clarke thinks, pulling her hands out of his hair and wondering when they got there.

She rests her hands instead on his chest, and feels the rapid breathing that matches her own.

"I..." Bellamy trails off. He shrugs helplessly, letting his hand fall from her face, though the other stays warm and steady against the small of her back.

"That was really good," Clarke blurts out.

"Uh, thanks?" Bellamy replies uncertainly.

She can't stop babbling. "No, I mean, that was great; I just didn't know what to expect, but you––"

"'Didn't know what to expect?'" Bellamy echoes, his face puzzled.

"Oh god," Clarke says very quietly, but he still hasn't let her go so he's close enough to hear everything.

"Clarke?"

She ducks her head to stare at his chest instead of his face when she replies. "That might have been my first kiss," she mumbles.

A moment of silence.

"You've _never_ been kissed?" His voice is incredulous, and Clarke wrinkles her nose before looking back at him.

"Ah, nope," she replies. "No kissing, no sexing, none of that."

"No sex––wait, have you ever––?" His eyes flicker between her face and lower_._

Clarke snorts and looks up at the ceiling. "_Yes, _I've gotten myself off, Bellamy. Jesus. It's the twenty-first century."

He tilts her chin until she's looking back at him; instead of looking sheepish or embarrassed, his pupils are so wide and night-sky dark that Clarke half-expects to see stars in them.

"Can I help next time?"

She stares at him as his words sink in. Then, slowly, she starts to giggle, the sound growing louder at the way his brow furrows in response.

"Smooth, Bellamy, _really smooth––" _

Her laughter is cut off when he cups her between her legs and she lets out a little surprised gasp instead. His skin is still separated from hers by her shorts and panties, but the fabric is thin enough to feel the warmth of his palm in a place only she's touched before.

"Fuck," she whispers, feeling the heat creep up her neck to her cheeks as she stares at him with wide eyes. Her fingers slowly curl into fists, holding the fabric of his t-shirt tightly to anchor herself.

"_Please_?" he says. That little muscle in his jaw jumps again as he waits for her reply.

"Really?" she squeaks; in response he leans forward and kisses her again, this time until she can barely think.

"Okay," she breathes when he pulls back, "Yes, please, please, _please do_."

(He does.)

(It's an even better first than her first kiss.)

(But the best first is four months later, when Bellamy is the first one to say _I love you._)


	11. Cerberus

**Please note:** The previous fic in this collection, First Kiss, now has two sequel oneshots: Another First and Lasts. Because they are rated E, they can be found on my AO3 account, linked in my profile, if you're interested. Any other E-rated fics that are part of this collection are also available there.

From anonymous on tumblr: "Bellamy and Clarke and Bellamy's new best friend a stray three-headed corgi named Cerberus"

The corgi was traded out for a general mutt because of natural selection reasons.

* * *

"You've already _named_ it?" Clarke says, staring at the mutant creature.

"Cerberus," Bellamy replies, scratching it behind the ears on the middle head. "It would probably have been a crime not to name him that, what with the three heads and all."

"Bellamy, I think that _thing_ is the crime," Clarke says skeptically. "Against nature."

"Don't listen to her," Bellamy says to the dog, ruffling its mottled fur. "She's just jealous I found the first dog and not her."

The dog's face––_faces_––are looking at her mournfully, and Clarke almost feels guilty about her comment.

Almost.

"If you just found it out in the forest, it's not likely to be tame," she points out. "What if it devours us in our sleep? Or when we're _awake_?"

"Princess, loosen up," Bellamy says, standing up. "He's been nothing but gentle."

Clarke sighs. "Don't come crying to me when it bites your hand off. I'm saving my medical supplies for people who _aren't_ morons."

But when she tries to walk away, the dog slinks forward until it's trotting along at her side. Clarke stops in her tracks and eyes the dog. It plops into a sitting position, looks back at her, then starts panting, tongues lolling cheerfully out of all three mouths.

"Bellamy," she calls. "Come get your damn dog."

"He likes you," Bellamy replies. She turns and glares at him when she sees the grin on his face.

"I don't like him," she says through gritted teeth. "And I have work to do."

It goes on like that for days. Even if Clarke manages to slip out of her and Bellamy's cabin early in the morning before anyone else is up, the dog finds her within an hour. If she's out looking for herbs in the forest, he'll melt out of the trees and appear at her side with far too much stealth for such an unwieldy-looking animal. Even when she's bathing in the river, the dog is never far away, though at those times it seems more like he's guarding her from a polite distance.

"He's your dog!" she explodes when Bellamy laughs one time too many upon the umpteenth time finding Cerberus curled up in the corner of the medbay, snoring. "Keep him with you, or I swear I'll––"

"What?" Bellamy asks, leaning a hip against her worktable. "What'll you do to him?"

Clarke narrows her eyes and stuffs some red seaweed into her mortar. "Oh, I won't do anything to _him_," she says. "You, on the other hand, will be dead meat."

Bellamy just smirks. "You can't blame him for wanting to be by your side."

"I can't? Why not?" Clarke replies.

"Lincoln says dogs learn from their masters," he replies. "You can't blame him for what he learns from me."

Clarke stops in the middle of grinding seaweed to blink at him. "What?"

He walks over to her, plucks the pestle out of her hand and lays it on the worktable.

"We're both want to protect what we care about," Bellamy says.

Clarke rolls her eyes. "That damn dog following me around is _not_ doing it because he cares about me," she says.

"No, but that's why I do it," Bellamy replies. He manages to maintain his serious expression for about three seconds until Clarke scoffs and shoves at his chest. Then he's laughing and catching her hands in his.

"That was _awful_," Clarke says, her lips twitching as she tries to keep from smiling.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, and uses his grasp on her to pull her closer. "The basic idea is there, though."

"Oh?" Clarke replies archly, looping her arms around his neck. "Do elaborate."

"Shut up, princess," he murmurs, and when she finally loses the battle against her laughter, he kisses her silent. Or at least until the lack of sound wakes Cerberus, who then growls at Bellamy until Clarke reaches down blindly and pats one of his heads, letting him know she's alright––just a bit preoccupied.


	12. Sketches

From anonymous on tumblr: "Bellamy finds Clarke's sketches of him"

* * *

Almost four years ago, Bellamy was trying to make ends meet while putting his little sister through college and keeping up with the mortgage payment, and the third bedroom of their little house was sitting empty. A couple days on craigslist, a few interviews with frankly terrifying people wanting to rent the extra room, and then came Clarke.

From the moment the Blakes met Clarke Griffin, it was clear that she was smart, responsible, and only a normal amount of crazy. She didn't want the room because she'd been kicked out of her old place, or because she was on the run from the law, or anything like that––she was just tired of living in her parents' home, and wanted to spend her college years in a new place.

They met her on a Tuesday. She was moved in by Friday. And that was that.

Since then, Bellamy's occasionally regretted the quick decision he and Octavia made about letting Clarke move in.

Usually this happens when Octavia and Clarke gang up on him about how much sleep he's getting in between his job at the bar, his second job working security, and his online classes.

Or he'll regret it when Clarke goes through a health craze and the fridge is too full with kale and carrots and spinach to fit in a gallon of milk.

Often he regrets it on Thursdays, because when Clarke forgets to do laundry on the weekends, it's always a Thursday when she resorts to wearing the smallest, oldest jean shorts known to man, and a tank top worn so thin he can make out the pattern of her bra while she scrambles to do her laundry before she runs out of underwear. (He regretted it when Clarke _told _him that, and since then he's never been able to get the thought of Clarke Griffin without underwear out of his head.)

He regrets that he's uncomfortably attracted to the bright, snarky blonde who pays him rent each month.

But regret doesn't change how he feels.

Octavia's on campus for her chemistry lab, but Clarke is home sick with a sinus infection. And though it's Bellamy's one day off this week, he can't help but hover around her.

She just looks so miserable, alright, and it's not as if he's got anything better to do. Jesus.

Clarke's curled up on the couch, and Bellamy's on the opposite end by her feet while they watch the end of _Beauty and the Beast, _Clarke's favorite. The credits begin to roll and Clarke groans, shifting on the couch.

Bellamy turns and sees her trying to push herself up.

"Hey!" he says. "Where do you think you're going?"

Clarke opens her mouth to reply, but is interrupted by a massive sneeze.

"Ugh," she says, her mouth turning down.

Bellamy hands her a tissue.

"Thanks," she sniffs, and blows her nose obnoxiously loud. Her hair is greasy from how much she's been napping over the past couple of days, her eyes are watery and puffy, her nose is red and chapped.

He tries to convince himself she's not still beautiful to him.

(He fails.)

She wiggles again, trying to free herself from the blankets he'd tucked around her earlier when she was sleeping.

"Clarke," he says warningly.

"Bellamy," she snips back.

"You better need to pee," he says. "That's the only reason you should be getting up."

She frowns at him––pouts, really, but the last time he pointed out her pout, she'd socked him in the arm and declared that _Clarke Griffin does _not _pout. _"I've been on this couch for days. I need to work on my honors thesis at least a little."

"Didn't you hit the minimum requirement for your honors thesis, oh, a month ago?" he replies.

"Just because there's a minimum doesn't mean I _feel _done," Clarke replies. "I've got plans to add at least four more pieces."

Bellamy sighs dramatically and pushes himself to his feet. "Fine. I'll let you work on them _if _you stay on the couch and rest."

"You'll _let me_?" Clarke echoes indignantly. He ignores her as he walks into the kitchen. Clarke has a bad habit of leaving her school stuff scattered across the dining table, and her messenger back is right there in the middle of it.

He pulls open the flap, pulls out her sketchbook and her supply case.

Returning to the living room, he holds them out to her. "Here."

Clarke tries to grab them, but the heavy sketchbook falls out of her hands and to the floor, where the cover bounces open to reveal one of her sketches.

"Shit," she says very quietly. Bellamy snorts and bends down to pick it up.

"No harm done, princess. It's just a sketch…book…" he trails off when the subject of the drawing registers.

It's him. More than that, it's him, bare-chested, looking away from the viewer so the focus is on his jaw, throat, and shoulders rather than his face. Clarke had even sketched in all of his freckles in meticulous detail––there's the cluster of three on his right shoulder, the ones that look like Orion's Belt.

"Clarke?" he says.

"Yes," she replies eventually.

"This is me."

"Yes."

Bellamy picks up the sketchbook, starts flipping through the pages as Clarke groans loudly.

There are plenty of other subjects, Octavia and their friend Raven, some landscapes, a few still lifes. But a good third of the finished sketches are of him.

"Why?" he asks, a funny feeling in this pit of his stomach as he reluctantly hands the sketchbook back to her. She sets it on her lap, fingers gripping the edges.

"I just really like you," Clarke blurts out, and then her face reddens so much her poor nose doesn't stand out anymore. "I mean, I really like your body––_drawing_ your body––fuck––drawing you."

Bellamy stares at her. "What?"

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut, and her nose wrinkles. "I really like drawing you," she sighs. "I know it's rude, especially without asking you. I can stop."

Bellamy can't help but smile at her face, all wrinkled nose and furrowed brow and bright cheeks.

"I don't mind," he says honestly. She opens her eyes, peeks up at him.

"Really?"

He shakes his head. "But how long, exactly, have you been drawing me?" he asks.

"No comment," Clarke replies crisply, and turns her sketchbook to a fresh page.

He watches her gaze determinedly at her blank page for a couple minutes as an idea formulates in his mind. Then Bellamy heads to the kitchen, pours Clarke a glass of juice and fixes her a plate of sliced fruit––she needs the vitamins, okay?––before grabbing a post-it and pencil. He delivers the snacks to Clarke, who thanks him absently, before returning to his spot on the end of the couch.

They spend the following moments in silence broken only by the sounds of Clarke sipping and munching. Clarke's pencil moves across her paper is light, quick scratches while Bellamy drags his in slow, deliberate moves over the bright yellow post-it as he concentrates.

"Here," he says when it's finished, reaching over and sticking it to the middle of her paper. She stops in the middle of a line, stares at the little post-it doodle. She pulls it gently from the paper and brandishes the note at him.

"What _is _this?" she asks.

He hides his smile. "_Clearly, _it's you. See the crown, princess?" He points to the series of spiky lines topping the horridly-executed stick figure.

"Okay…" she says slowly. "Thanks, I guess?"

"I just wanted to show you," he says.

Clarke raises an eyebrow and waits.

"I like, uh, _drawing _you, too," he says.

Her eyes widen and dart between the doodle and his face.

"Really?" she asks.

"Yeah," he replies.

Clarke grins at the doodle, at him. "Well. Good," she says, and they both settle back against the couch. Bellamy turns on _Pacific Rim _to keep himself entertained while Clarke works.

"Drawing is a metaphor," he says suddenly, a few minutes later while kaijus are attacking. "In case you didn't get that."

Clarke laughs and smacks him in the shoulder.

"I know, Bellamy. I know."


	13. Girl Talk

From anonymous on tumblr: "Clarke and Raven compare Finn and Bellamy in bed and Bellamy totally hears"

* * *

It's like one of those nightmares, the one where you show up at work for an important presentation only to realize halfway through that you're naked from the waist down. Eventually, you realize it's probably a dream, but you can't quite manage to wake yourself up from it. You're just stuck.

That's basically what happens to him. He lets himself into Clarke's apartment with the spare key she'd given him to grab his bag where he'd forgotten it by the door earlier that morning. Just before he calls out a hello, he hears voices drifting from the terrace. Bellamy hadn't realized Clarke was planning on having anyone over, and out of curiosity he rounds the corner enough to see Raven and Clarke stretched out in their bikinis on lounge chairs, massive tumblers of brightly-colored––likely alcoholic––drinks dangling from their hands.

And then he hears them.

"Did he do that thing with his mouth?" Raven asks. Bellamy throws himself backward, smacking his body into the wall with a quiet thud as he quickly gets out of sight.

"Finn didn't do anything with his mouth," Clarke replies skeptically.

_Ugh_, Bellamy thinks at the thought of Finn Collins's mouth anywhere _near_ Clarke. Or Raven, for that matter. He's aware, unfortunately, of the women's previous relationships with that asshole, but he doesn't like to linger on the thought.

"Ha! Trick question," Raven crows. "You passed. I think he thinks his mouth's only good for talking."

"Did _Bellamy_ do that thing with his mouth?" Clarke asks, and then he hears a big slurp.

Bellamy swallows hard as heat builds in his cheeks. He should really––go. He should go right now. Really.

He can't move.

Raven sighs. "Yeah. Lucky bitch, you get to have him do it more than the one time."

His face is probably all kinds of twisted up right now––_oh god_, he thinks. _Please_ don't tell him Raven wants a repeat of their drunken one-night-stand from three years ago. Sure, that time turned into a great friendship, but Bellamy doesn't know how the hell he would deal with the knowledge that she wants to do it again. Probably with a lot of awkwardness and hiding behind Clarke.

Clarke snorts. "I'd offer to let you try again, except, no, I don't want to."

_Good, Clarke, good,_ Bellamy thinks.

"Sharing is caring!" Raven says.

"You're not telling me Wick doesn't know how to use his mouth," Clarke retorts.

There's a pause, then a giggle. "Nope, you're right. Nevermind, I'm good. I'm _really_ good."

_Thank god,_ Bellamy thinks. Also _ugh_, because again, he's not really into hearing about Wick's abilities in the bedroom, but overall_ thank god_ Raven's happy with Wick.

"Okay, okay, okay," Clarke says when the giggles die down. Bellamy raises an eyebrow at the excited repetition––usually Clarke only starts talking like that after more than a couple drinks, and he wonders how much of that tumbler she's already sucked down. "On a scale of zero to ten, rate Finn and Bellamy."

Back to Finn––Bellamy grimaces.

"Wait, no! Write it on your phone, and we'll switch at the same time," Raven says.

There's a moment of silence, then Clarke bursts out laughing.

"You rated Wick?" she says. "And you realize that 'eleventy' isn't a real number, right?"

"Shut up, it totally is," Raven says. "You didn't follow the rules either, Miss One-Hundred!"

Bellamy grins.

"What is this?" Raven continues. He peeks around the corner and sees she's squinting at Clarke's phone still. "Oh my god, is this a little poop emoji?"

Clarke shrugs and takes another sip of her drink. "Well, in comparison to what I get to experience now..."

Bellamy can't hold it in any longer, and at the first laugh they both whip their heads around and spot him.

"Hi," he manages to say, and then snorts helplessly as he leans against the wall and cracks up.

Bellamy knows by the expression on their faces that he's probably in trouble, but he can't bring himself to care.


	14. Double Date

From anonymous on tumblr: "Minty and Bellarke double date"

* * *

Bellamy has never seen Nathan Miller this flustered. Ever.

His best friend isn't the type to fidget with the cuffs of his shirt sleeves. He's not the type to smooth his hair––as if it's even possible for it to get messed up. He's never been the type to jolt in shock when his phone vibrates with a new text.

He's never been that type of person, until now.

"Dude, calm the fuck down," Bellamy says with a smirk when Miller nearly drops his phone.

Miller levels a lethal glare at him. "Fuck off, Blake."

"It's going to go fine," Bellamy says. "You've known him for two years. It's not that big of a deal."

"That means we've had two years to get used to being friends," Miller mutters. "What if we––what if trying to––"

"Date?" Bellamy interjects dryly.

"What if it doesn't go well? What if _everything_ fucking crashes and burns?" Miller says.

"Well, it won't, because one, it's going to go _fine_, and two, even if for some ridiculous, unbelievable reason it doesn't, do you really believe Monty would stop being your friend?"

Miller lowers his eyes, turns his phone over and over in his hands. "No."

"Exactly. Now get your shit together, man. It's almost time to go and we don't have time to deal with any more of your angst."

Miller sneers at him as they head out of their apartment. "Sorry, could you remind me––who was the guy so nervous about his first date with a certain blonde that I had to tackle him to keep him from leaving the apartment with mismatched shoes and toothpaste on his face?"

"Screw you, Miller," Bellamy replies cheerfully.

Outside, Bellamy convinces Miler to drive them to the bar, hoping that concentrating on the road will help him calm down. Grounders isn't far away, so they _could_ have walked, but Miller needs all the help he can get right now.

Bellamy's own phone buzzes.

_I've wrangled Monty into the car and we're leaving work now_, Clarke's texted. _I'm a little worried he's going to hyperventilate._

_What's wrong with him?_ Bellamy replies. _Miller's been going out of his mind._

_He's worried about what he's wearing, I think? He keeps groaning about how we should have picked a later time so we could have changed out of our teaching clothes into something "more flattering."_

Bellamy snorts, but Miller's too busy muttering under his breath about how long the red light is taking to notice.

_Trust me, Miller wouldn't care if he showed up in a potato sack._

_Can I tell Monty that?_ Clarke replies immediately. _He won't stop saying that he can't change the tide of their relationship if the moon won't cooperate. I don't even know what that's supposed to mean. And when I tried to ask he yelled at me about it being basic physics._

Bellamy raises his eyebrows at that. _Monty Green YELLED at you?_

_Okay, he got a teeny bit louder than normal. It was a Monty Green Yell, not a real people yell._

_Tell him if you want,_ Bellamy texts as Miller parks across the street from Grounders. _But we're here. See you inside, princess._

They head inside and get a booth––Clarke's orders, because she claims a booth is more intimate than the high tables in the main bar area.

"Calm down," Bellamy reminds his friend one more time. Miller's got his arms crossed tightly while his jiggling leg is making their table tremble.

"Shut up," Miller replies.

"Hey guys!" It's Clarke's voice, and Bellamy turns to see the familiar golden hair and blue eyes.

"Hey Clarke," Miller greets her when she waves at him.

"Thank god," Bellamy says, though quietly enough she's the only one raising an eyebrow at him. He stands up to kiss her hello, noticing in his periphery that Miller's standing as well.

Clarke hums against his mouth, and when he pulls away she darts in to place one more peck on his lips.

"Hi," she sighs, squeezing him in a quick hug.

"Long day at middle school, princess?"

"The longest," she says. "Fourth period was especially heinous. The little monsters started a clay war. I gave out six referrals and nine detentions, and the instigator got suspended."

"Let me guess," Bellamy says. "Cage Wallace."

Clarke grimaces at the name of her least favorite student. "Who else?"

"Where's Monty?" Bellamy asks, noticing Miller looking pretty pathetic as he searches the bar for the familiar mop of dark hair.

"Bathroom," Clarke says. "But he should be here any second."

"That second is now," Monty pipes up as he appears by their booth.

"Hey man," Bellamy says, and Monty nods.

"Good to see you, Bellamy."

Monty turns toward Miller, who then clears his throat.

"Hey, uh, Monty. You look––you look good."

Monty smiles. "Hi Nate. You look nice, too."

"Okay!" Clarke interrupts brightly. "We're going to get the first round from the bar while you two decide what food we should order. Be right back!" She seizes Bellamy's hand and drags him away, and Bellamy can barely keep a straight face as Monty and Miller watch them with identical and poorly-disguised expressions of panic.

"You're evil," he tells his girlfriend as they wait at the bar.

Clarke shrugs. "Whatever it takes, Bellamy. Whatever it takes."

Bellamy laughs at her, and she bumps him with her hip. "Seriously, come on," she says. "Those two idiots need, like, a _minute_ alone and they'll get over their nerves."

Bellamy glances back at their booth, sees two heads huddled a little closer than necessary over a shared menu.

Clarke follows his gaze just as Miller reaches out to brush Monty's hair away from his face. Monty catches Miller's hand before he can withdraw it completely, and just holds it. "See?" she says triumphantly.

"You can't blame me for being skeptical," he counters. "We were alone for _our_ first date, and it ended in yelling and an ice cream cone being smashed in my face."

"Yeah, well, you're you," Clarke says, wrinkling her nose at him. "Nate's bark is _much_ worse than his bite. And Monty is a precious cupcake, so they'll be fine."

"Hey!" Bellamy replies indignantly as the bartender finally brings their order. "Are you saying my bark is as bad as my bite?" It sounds a little silly when he says it out loud, but he still wants to know what she means by that.

"Oh, absolutely," Clarke says innocently, taking a sip of her rum and coke. Then she winks at him. "But don't worry. I happen to _love_ your bite."

Bellamy leans forward and kisses her, nipping her lips before pulling away. "Good," he says, satisfied by the slightly dazed look on her face. "Come on, let's take these back to the booth."

But when they get there and set the drinks on the table, neither Miller nor Monty look up, too engrossed in each other to bother.

Clarke and Bellamy exchange a look, and then Bellamy clears his throat.

"Hey, I left my phone in the car."

Miller barely glances away from Monty long enough to toss his keys at Bellamy.

"I'll go with you," Clarke announces, shouldering her purse.

The second they're outside the bar, Bellamy looks at her. "Monty drove, right? He still has his keys?"

Clarke nods. "Yeah, and they can always get a cab."

"Let's get out of here," Bellamy says.

"So much for a double date," Clarke muses as they slide into the car. "I've never felt like such third wheels in my life."

"It's fine. We'll just go have our own date," Bellamy says, pulling out into traffic.

"Yeah?" Clarke replies, tangling her hand with the one he's not using on the steering wheel. "What do you have in mind?"

He flashes a smile at her, squeezes her fingers gently.

"You never did get to finish that ice cream."


	15. Hellamy Blake

From anonymous on tumblr: "That's why they call me Hellamy Blake." "Nobody calls you Hellamy Blake!"

* * *

She doesn't mean to get him drunk. Honest.

But when Octavia begs her to take Bellamy out of their apartment and _keep_ him out so she can be alone with Lincoln for more than five minutes, Clarke isn't quite sure where to go. Octavia deserves a little privacy––Bellamy hasn't exactly been accommodating ever since he found out his friend and his little sister were dating, and seriously––but Clarke and Bellamy don't usually go out, just the two of them.

Sure, they'll have movie nights on their living room couch when Octavia's out working, or in her late class. And they'll go grocery shopping together, because Bellamy always forgets Clarke's almond milk if she doesn't go with him. Sometimes they have laundry-folding parties. But those are normal things for a girl to do with her roommate when the third roommate is busy.

Taking her roommate out on a Saturday night? Her very tan, curly-haired, toned, freckled, stupid-attractive male roommate?

Definitely _not_ a typical roommate outing.

She's not sure what to do. Hence, the hasty decision to take Bellamy to Mount Weather and ply him with alcohol until he forgot that his best friend and his little sister were doing decidedly unplatonic things back in their apartment.

And, Clarke thinks as she watches in growing alarm as Bellamy signals for his fourth (fifth?) drink, nobody is going to say it was one of her better choices.

Bellamy Blake is well on his way to drunk, and he's no closer to forgetting about his sister and Lincoln than he is to confessing his love for John Murphy.

"I don't like him," Bellamy says, a belligerent frown on his face as he sways a little on his barstool, his drink in his hand. "He's old."

"He's your age, Bellamy," Clarke says. "Wow. So ancient."

"He's _cradle-robbing_," he complains.

"Twenty-two and twenty-eight is not a terrible age gap," she says, exasperated. "You and I are six years apart, too; should we not be friends?"

"_Friends_ is fine," he says, and then his voice takes on a strangely melancholy tone. "But we can't be more than friends. That's wrong."

"Why?" she asks, swirling her straw around in her own drink. She's on her second, taking her time.

He pauses. "I don't remember." His mouth forms a pout, and Clarke can't help but imagine what little-boy-Bellamy would have looked like, all pouty and serious if he didn't get his way. "But we can't. Shouldn't. _They_ shouldn't."

"Well, I disagree," Clarke says. "They can and they _should_, because six years isn't a big deal and they really like each other."

"I'm going to teach him a lesson," Bellamy declares, ignoring her. "It's not _nice_ for a guy to kiss his sister's friend."

"Bellamy, I don't––wait, what?" Clarke says.

"I _said_," he replies dramatically, "That it's not _nice_ for someone to kiss his––" Bellamy pauses, gets a funny look on his face, and clears his throat. "His friend's sister."

Was that simply a drunken slip of the tongue? Or a drunken hint of the truth? When Clarke catches herself hoping, rather desperately, that it's the latter––that he meant _sister's friend_, not _friend's sister_, and that he meant Clarke––she downs the rest of her cocktail.

Clarke's lived with her best friend and her friend's older brother for four years. If he ever felt anything for her, he would have had plenty of time to do something about it.

"You're not going to win any fights in your current state," Clarke tells him instead.

"I can do whatever the hell I want." Bellamy fishes out his wallet and slaps far too much money down on the bar before slipping off of his stool. She sighs and pockets the extra before following. He hasn't gotten far, and Clarke trails behind him as he strides out the door.

"Whatever the hell I want," he grumbles again when he notices her. "That's why they call me Hellamy Blake."

"Nobody calls you Hellamy Blake!" Clarke says.

"_Yet_," Bellamy replies.

When he tries to pull open the driver side door of Clarke's car, she grabs his arm.

"Whoa, I don't think so," she says. "You're not driving and you're _not_ ruining your sister's night."

Bellamy's eyes have been on her hand since she grabbed his arm, and as his gaze stays focused, she slowly realizes how warm the skin under hers is.

"You should let me go, Clarke," he says, "Or else I'm going to do something very stupid."

Clarke glares at him. "If I let you go, you'll _definitely_ do something stupid."

"Fine," he snaps, and his hands are cupping her her cheeks and his mouth is on hers, and he tastes like whiskey and soda and Clarke's barely gotten a taste when he wrenches himself away.

He stares at her, irises thin rings around huge pupils, and then pulls his hands off of her as if she's started to burn him.

"Bellamy," Clarke says slowly. "What the _hell_ was that?"

"Something stupid," he mutters, eyes downcast.

She swallows. "Why––why is it stupid?"

His eyes snap to hers.

"What?" he asks.

She licks her lips. "It's just, the way I see it…the only thing stupid about that kiss was that it took you four years and liquid courage to do it."

Then she frowns. "Wait, how drunk are you really? Please don't tell me this was just something funny your drunk brain came up with."

He's staring at her, the chagrin on his face rapidly sliding into delight. "Not drunk. Well, a little drunk," he amends when she raises an eyebrow. "But it's not something my drunk brain came up with. More like something my drunk brain set free from my sober brain."

She gestures for him to continue.

"I just––you're Octavia's best friend," he says. "And my roommate. _And_ when I met you, you were barely legal. It just seemed sort of skeevy for me to admit I was into you, and then I got stuck telling myself _no_."

He hesitates. "But––but you don't mind that I'm six years older than you?"

Clarke rolls her eyes and circles his waist with her arms. His come around her out of reflex, but then he holds her closer.

"I told you, Bellamy," she says. "A difference of six years isn't a big deal when you really, really like each other."

"And we do?"

She smiles. "Yeah. We do."

* * *

Hope you enjoyed! On a different note, I JUST realized all of my italics have been lost every time I upload to , so I'll fixing those soon! Thanks for reading. :)


	16. By the Lake

From anonymous on tumblr: "Hey there! How about a classic competitive Bellarke: we are both leaders at a summer camp and my kids are going to kick your kids asses in the camp competition?"

* * *

It starts by the lake. Cabin Seven′s campers are naturals with the canoes, and she flashes a victorious smile at Bellamy, who's watching with chagrin as the kids of Cabin Twelve flounder in the shallows of the lake.

"Whatever," he tells her later at the campfire. "Who even uses canoes anymore? It's not like it's a useful life skill, being able to use a couple of fat sticks to paddle yourself around in a skinny boat."

Clarke scoffs. "If it'll help you feel better about my kids kicking your kids' asses in every activity, sure, keep telling yourself that."

He snags her s'more just as she's about to eat the perfectly roasted piece of heaven, and takes a big, messy bite. He puts it back in her hand, graham cracker crumbling, chocolate and marshmallow oozing out on her palm.

"May all your marshmallows burn," she curses him.

"I bet you my kids will beat yours in more activities by the end of the week," Bellamy says through a mouthful of Clarke's s'more, ignoring her.

Clarke rolls her eyes and licks the chocolate that's slowly melting down her wrist. "You wish," she says, and swipes her tongue against stray marshmallow.

Bellamy's strangely quiet, and she glances up to see him staring, transfixed, at her mouth.

She quirks an eyebrow at him, considers the way he jerks when he catches her catching him watching. "Want to make it interesting?" she asks, and sucks a sweet, sticky finger into her mouth.

She's enchanted when he nearly goes cross-eyed at the sight, and clears his throat loudly.

"What do you mean?"

Clarke gives up and stuffs the rest of the treat into her mouth, closing her eyes and moaning happily at the taste.

When she opens them again, Bellamy's shifting as if uncomfortable on the log next to her. "You okay, there?" she asks.

"Fine," he says tightly. "What did you mean, make it interesting?"

Clarke shrugs and looks over at the campers. They range in age from five to seventeen, though all of Clarke and Bellamy's campers are middle schoolers. All of the campers are currently being led in a sing-a-long by Camp Jaha's director and founder, Thelonious.

"I meant, we could bet something. If my cabin wins more activities, I get––I don't know, I get to pick all the pitstops on our drive back to Arkadia."

"But I wanted to go to that gold rush museum on the drive back," Bellamy complains. "This is our last year to finally go!"

"Your last year, old man," she reminds him. "I'm still eligible to be a cabin leader for two more years."

He blinks at her. "You'd come back without me?"

Clarke opens her mouth, then pauses. She's never been at Camp Jaha without Bellamy, not when they were campers themselves being forced to go by their mothers because they spent too much time cooped up with their history books and easels, respectively. And not since they came back as cabin leaders, the only two of their group of friends to decide they wanted to. They've carpooled for the three hour long drive from Arkadia to Camp Jaha each summer.

Bellamy's already hit the upper limit of the age range for cabin leader, but Clarke's only twenty, so she could apply to be a cabin leader for two more years.

But...

"No," she says. "I wouldn't."

His eyes go soft and the firelight plays against the angles of his face as he grins at her. Clarke can't help but smile back.

"Which means this is _the_ year to go to the dumb museum," she says. "Winner picks pitstops?"

"May the best Cabin Leader win," he counters.

"Thanks; I will," Clarke says.

"My campers are going to destroy yours," he replies. "You're going to learn about the Gold Rush and _like it_."

She elbows him. "Make me another s'more."

* * *

Cabin Twelve wins the horseshoes tournament, Cabin Seven the archery contest. They tie for last place in the bracelet-making competition, which makes Bellamy laugh at Clarke when she grumbles about not passing on her artistic abilities to a single camper in Cabin Seven.

In the end, it comes down to the chess tournament, of all things. But Lexa from Cabin Seven is ruthless, and sacrifices her knight without a second thought, and that leads the twelve-year-old to a quick victory against Cage, who's left gaping at the destruction of his attempted strategy.

Bellamy grins ruefully at Clarke as she wiggles her hips in a little victory dance later that night when their campers are in the mess hall. She and Bellamy are down by the lake.

"We won, we won, we won!" she chants. "Kiss the Gold Rush goodbye, mister, because we're going to Six Flags instead!"

She only stops dancing in the quiet of the evening when warm fingers on her waist make her still.

"Hey," Bellamy says, thumb stroking over the cotton of her camp t-shirt. "Congratulations on winning a pointless contest."

Distracted by his touch, it takes Clarke a second to register his words register. When she does, she scowls and shoves at his chest. He huffs a laugh.

"You're just mad your cabin didn't win," Clarke insists, "because _clearly_ I'm the most magnificent creature on the face of the planet and there was no way my cabin was going to lose."

"Clearly," he agrees, but his voice is soft and his hands are firm as he uses his hold on her waist to tug her up against him.

Her lips part a little in surprise, her hands coming to rest on his chest. The warmth of him is soothing in the cool air.

"I don't..." She pauses and licks her lips. "I don't remember this being part of the competition rules."

Bellamy shrugs. "Loser's consolation prize," he tells her. "It's only fair." The nerves are clear on his face, but so is the desire.

"Oh," Clarke says, delight blooming in her chest even while her heart thuds almost painfully in anticipation. "Well, if it's all in the interest of fairness."

But when he finally kisses her, it doesn't seem fair at all that they waited until now to do so. She tells him so, breathlessly, when he pulls away from her mouth.

He buries his face in his hair and laughs, arms hugging her tight. "We'll just have to make up for it somehow, princess."

Clarke hugs him back, hiding her giddy grin in his shirt. "Good," she says.

It ends by the lake. Or the competition does, at least––everything else begins.


	17. Dreams

Note the rating change! This one gets a little steamy, so I thought it safest to go up to M, just in case. Hope you enjoy!

From anonymous on tumblr: "I had a sex dream about you and now I can't look you in the eye"

* * *

Her slightly glazed expression tips her best friend off the second Clarke wanders into their kitchen far too early that morning.

"Oh my god," Raven says, setting her mug down on the table so hard that some coffee sloshes over the edge. "Did you get laid last night? Shit, is he still _here_?"

"Raven!" Clarke says.

"Sorry, is _she _still here?"

"No one's here," Clarke groans, slipping into the chair next to Raven and dropping her head to the table with a thunk.

"Clarke," Raven says after a moment of silence. Clarke tries to ignore her. "Clarke. Clarke. _Clarke_," her friend sings, punctuating each word with a poke to Clarke's arm.

"I was raised by a surgeon," Clarke replies, voice muffled. "I know how to kill you slowly and painfully."

"Shut up, you love me," Raven says, and pokes her again. "And you know I'm not going to stop until you explain why you look like you got screwed six ways to Sunday."

Clarke lifts her head off the table. "I…had a dream," she admits, her face burning.

A beat.

"You look like that from a _dream_?" Raven asks incredulously. "Must have been one hell of a dream, Griffin."

The sigh she lets out is unintentionally dreamy-sounding, and Raven snickers at her. "It was _really _good," Clarke says. "Like, really, _really _good."

"Who was it?" Raven replies eagerly. Clarke wrinkles her nose and presses her lips together, and her friend sighs and stands up.

"Don't make me do this," Raven says, going to their coffeepot.

"Do what?" Clarke asks, utterly confused.

Raven pours the last of the brewed coffee into a mug, but instead of handing it to Clarke, she holds it threateningly over the sink.

"No!" Clarke gasps, holding out her hands and making grabby motions. "I need that!"

"Do you? Do you really?" Raven says, tilting the mug so a thin trickle of liquid starts to run over the side. "Do you know what _I _need, Clarke?"

"Screw you, Reyes," Clarke replies.

"I'll tell you what I need," Raven continues as if Clarke never spoke. "I need to know who dream-fucked you so good you look like a small breeze could knock you over."

The mug tilts a little more, and Clarke finds herself blurting out, "Bellamy Blake!"

Raven stares at her for a good couple seconds. Then she walks across the kitchen, hands the mug to Clarke, and nearly doubles over laughing.

"Fuck you," Clarke grumbles, and takes a deep gulp of her coffee.

"You––and he––" Raven gasps, hands braced on her thighs as she tries to straighten up. She's still laughing too hard, though, and Clarke imagines that one good push would send her toppling onto her ass.

"I'm going to call Kyle," Clarke says conversationally. "And tell him what you told me last time we went out for happy hour. What was it, exactly? That you wished you were dirty laundry so you'd have an excuse to rub yourself all over his washboard abs?"

Raven quiets abruptly. "Don't you _dare _tell Wick that," her friend replies. "You were sworn to Girl Code silence. I won't be held responsible for my actions if you break the Code."

Clarke sips her coffee. "You're going to be late for your early meeting if you don't start getting ready," she says calmly.

Raven glances at the clock on the microwave and mutters curses under her breath.

"Don't think this is over," she demands, pointing an accusatory finger at Clarke. "We're talking about this later."

"Yeah, yeah." Clarke waves airily. "Have a good day, honey!"

"Say hi to Mr. Blake for me, sweetie-pie!" Raven calls back to her, voice sickly sweet.

* * *

It used to be that Clarke would have laughed just as hard as Raven if she woke up from a sex dream featuring Bellamy freaking Blake.

She did, in fact. She had woken up, blinked dazedly at her bedroom ceiling, the space between her legs still throbbing in time with her heart––and had burst out laughing at the memory of the dream. Bellamy Blake, making soft, sweet love to her? Hilarious, really, and she had laughed for a good five minutes at such a ludicrous dream.

The first time it happened, at least.

Which was a good few months ago.

She'd been able to go into work that day and treat him as normal. It wasn't hard, considering _normal _with the history teacher meant being irritated out of her mind with him. He'd made it especially easy that day, taking his class to the computer lab even though she had _very clearly _reserved it for a graphic design lesson for her art students.

The asshole had just smirked at her when she stopped in the doorway to the lab, flustered by the sight of the occupied room, and had claimed that his students were already too far into their projects to be expected to pack up and leave the lab. And because about thirty curious high schoolers had been behind her, watching her every move, she'd been forced to give him a courteous nod and take her students back to her classroom for a mediocre lesson about perspective lines.

So. Dream Bellamy? Not a big enough deal to make a difference with Real Life Bellamy.

Except then the dreams keep coming.

Bellamy eats her sandwich out of the teacher's lounge fridge, licks a stray bit of mustard from the corner of his mouth when she catches him, and that night she dreams about him using his mouth and tongue in much more _interesting _ways.

He brings her a burrito the next day, somehow getting her order right and claiming it's an apology gift, and she dreams he adds one hell of an orgasm to the apology.

He fucking waves at her across the parking lot after Open House night, and that night as she sleeps her brain supplies the fantasy of him taking her in the bed of his truck.

Clarke's managed to avoid Raven finding out until today, but she'd been up late grading and had been too tired to try and bring herself back down to earth before she left her room.

And the dream––well, it was a far cry from the first one. The first seemed downright innocent in comparison to what Clarke's clearly troubled mind came up with last night. Bellamy Blake, with his fingers drifting over her skin; Bellamy Blake, with his head between her thighs; Bellamy Blake, fucking her on one of the work tables in her classroom.

Fucking _hell._

"Fuck _me,"_ Clarke mutters as she tries to pull a bag of heavy clay out of her trunk. The sun is barely peeking above the horizon while she struggles in the high school parking lot.

"What's that, princess?"

Clarke stiffens even as the word––that stupid, _stupid _word he's called her ever since he found out her stepfather is the district superintendent––causes warmth leftover from her dream to stir deep in her belly.

Dream Bellamy may have a thing for calling her _princess _too. Clarke tries not to think about what that says about her psyche.

"Nothing," she grits out. "Move along, Blake."

"I could probably give you a referral for using language like that," Bellamy Blake, teacher of all the AP history classes, and a complete pain in her ass, says. "Detention, at least."

Clarke huffs, tugs at the strap of her bag. Why is it so fucking _heavy_? "Lucky for me, I'm not your student."

Then his warmth against her back in the cool air of the early morning registers, and she stills.

"Lucky for me, I think," he says, and his arm comes into view as he reaches past her and hauls the bag of clay out of her trunk with no effort whatsoever.

Clarke shivers, and then prays that he didn't notice before spinning around.

"Hey!" she starts, before her eyes settle on his face and her words stick in her throat.

_God_, her mind has a stupidly good memory for the pattern of his freckles and that delighted smirk he's always got when he's around her. She meets his eyes, feels her heartbeat quicken, and then she has to look away––her last, all-too-clear memory of those eyes is of them staring up at her as his dream-self moved his mouth against the burning flesh between her legs.

Addressing the collar of his shirt, Clarke says, "I need that," and holds out her hand for the bag of clay.

Bellamy snorts. "You'd drop like a rock," he tells her. "I saw you. How the hell did you even manage to get it in your car in the first place?"

"The guy at the supply store carried it out for me," she grumbles, shutting her trunk and locking her car. "I could have done it, though."

"Uh huh," he says. "Sure, princess."

Her muscles tremble at the word, and she glares at the ground. "Don't call me that here."

"It's six-thirty in the morning," he tells her. "Nobody's even here yet. Except us."

Clarke growls and starts stalking away toward her building. "Why are _you _here so early, Blake?" she asks. "You have prep first period."

His voice is close behind her as he follows her. "So do you."

Clarke's hand pauses with the key in the lock. "Yeah," she says, clearing her throat. "So?"

"So maybe I wanted to see why the princess likes getting to campus so early," he says, and his breath is tickling her ear and _fuck _this is not professional behavior, but she can't quite bring herself to tell him off.

Instead she yanks open the door to her classroom, making sure to elbow him in the process, and sails in as he lets out a pained huff_._

"The clay can go on the counter by the sinks," she tells him, eyes focused on writing the day's agenda on the whiteboard. Reluctantly, she adds, "Thanks for carrying it in."

She probably looks like an idiot who's forgotten how to spell _sculpt _as she holds her marker above the board, body still as she listens for his movements. In spite of her focus, she flinches when a hand brushes her shoulder.

"No problem, princess," Bellamy says, and Clarke turns around, shrinking away from him.

"Don't touch me!" she squeaks, and hopes the skirt of her dress hides the way she clamps her thighs together.

Bellamy takes a quick step back, hands up in the air. "I'm sorry," he says immediately, voice alarmed. "I didn't––I didn't mean to––"

Clarke risks a glance at his face––he looks stricken. The unfamiliar expression allows her to keep meeting his eyes.

"No, it's––it's okay," Clarke says, tripping over the words. "You didn't do anything––anything bad."

His brow furrows. "Then why are you acting like I have the bubonic fucking plague or something?"

"I––it's just best if you don't touch me," she says.

"Okay," he says slowly, and then his expression becomes considering. "So, you don't _want_ me to touch you," he states.

Clarke swallows hard. She should just agree, should just nod and say she doesn't _want _him to touch her.

"It's best if you don't," she repeats instead, and the corners of his mouth curl up into a wicked, wicked smile. _Fuck me_, she thinks.

"So you _do _want me to touch you." His voice is low, and it seems to rumble out of his chest and straight to Clarke's sex.

"Um," she says.

"Yes or no, Clarke," he says, lifting a hand until it ghosts just above the surface of her neck.

She curses her traitorous body when the smallest whimper slips out of her mouth.

"Answer me," Bellamy says, stepping closer. "Please."

It's the _please _that does it. His words are heated and heavy with meaning, but the _please _is earnest, almost desperate.

"_Shit_," she whispers. "Yes, okay? _Yes._"

His hand descends to her skin, thumb tracing the column of her throat, and he crowds her against the whiteboard.

Clarke shivers and tips her chin up, eyes drifting half-shut. Bellamy brushes his knuckles across her jaw before curling his hand around her nape––the gentle touch making her skin prickle.

"Good," he says, his lips catching against hers as he speaks. "Because I've wanted to touch you for fucking _ever, _princess."

"_God_," Clarke groans, "Then just fucking _do_ it, Blake!"

His mouth covers hers before she even finishes the last word, his other hand slipping down to squeeze her thigh while hers clutch at his shoulders. Their noses bump as they kiss fervently, and Clarke wonders why on earth she didn't just give in to her dreams' urgings before this. His lips are urgent against hers, but Clarke is the one to bite his lower lip until he opens his mouth to her with a moan.

He tastes sweet––more than a normal sweet, and she pulls her mouth from his.

"You drink _hot chocolate_ every morning?" she asks.

"It's how I stay so sweet," he snarks before turning his attention to her neck.

"_Sweet_?" she echoes. "Like _hell _you're––" Both of his hands go to her thighs and hoist her off the ground, Bellamy pinning her between his body and the whiteboard, and Clarke's words are cut off in an embarrassingly loud groan when his belt buckle lands right between her thighs. The fabric of her dress doesn't act as much of a barrier, and she's gone from zero to embarrassingly close in a matter of minutes under Bellamy's attention.

Bellamy's laugh is muffled against her collarbone, and when she pulls his hair in punishment he nips her in retaliation.

"_Shit_," Clarke chokes out, and then tugs on his hair again. "Don't you _dare _leave a mark where my students will see!"

"Okay," he agrees, and his lips trail lower as he nudges the bodice of her dress down to reveal the swell of a breast.

"Oh god," is all she can say. His tongue explores the lace edge of her bra, and then his teeth graze her skin. Her hips jolt against his, and he curses before surging up to kiss her messily. Clarke can hardly breathe, because the reality is far better than the dream, and she know she should hate that Bellamy Blake is the one driving her wild but she just _doesn't––_

"Oh!"

Bellamy freezes against her; Clarke pulls her mouth from his and wriggles until he drops her back to her feet.

"Maya!" she squeaks. Bellamy clears his throat awkwardly and tries to hide behind Clarke as she moves away from the board, fixing her dress.

"Hi," Bellamy says lamely.

"I'm sorry." The biology teacher stares at the floor, her cheeks pink. "I didn't mean to, uh, interrupt anything."

"Oh, you didn't––I mean, we're not––"

Maya meets her eyes, and though her furious blush remains, her skeptical amusement is the foremost emotion on her face.

Clarke sighs, face heating, and she can hear Bellamy's badly-concealed chuckle.

"Were you wanting something?" Clarke asks.

"I wanted to know if you were using your overhead projector today? Mine's still on the fritz and I need it for my review lesson," Maya replies.

Clarke shakes her head. "Um, no. Go ahead and take it."

The other teacher thanks her awkwardly and wheels the overhead cart out of Clarke's classroom.

She and Bellamy are left in silence, and Clarke's finding it utterly impossible to meet his eyes. _Again. _

"Students are going to start arriving soon," she says eventually, eyes on his button-up.

Bellamy hums in agreement. "Good thing Maya caught us instead of one of them."

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut and groans a little.

A pair of now-familiar lips press a quick, sweet kiss to her mouth, but when her eyes snap open Bellamy's already halfway out the door. He gives her a wave and one of those _infuriating _smirks of his.

"Don't worry, princess, I'll be more careful next time," he says, and then disappears.

Clarke's left staring, dazed, at her empty classroom; then his words register.

"Wait, what do you mean, _next time_?"

* * *

Raven comes home that night, takes one look at Clarke's face, and tackles her onto the couch demanding to know _everything._


	18. Festival

From cinnamonandseasalt on tumblr: "Bellarke + 47 [Meeting at a festival AU]"

* * *

Octavia decides to stay with Lincoln at the pottery booth––his brother-in-law is in deep conversation with the local potter about the pigments she uses in her glazes. But Eli and Nora are absolutely _not _interested, so Bellamy signals to his sister that he's taking the kids with him to explore more of the annual Harvest Festival.

"What do you want to see?" he asks his niece. She's tugging at his hand, leading him through the crowd with the most determined expression he thinks he's ever seen. Eli's balanced on Bellamy's hip, snuggled into his side and held in place with Bellamy's other hand. It's the middle of the toddler's normal nap time, and Bellamy's just glad the boy is sleepy instead of throwing a too-tired tantrum.

"I don't know," she chirps. Then she gasps. "Can I have a crown?"

Bellamy follows the five-year-old's eagerly pointing finger. They're at the end of the row of craft booths, and the last one is full of those circlets made of fake flowers and ribbons. For a girl like Nora, who spends her time at his house after school pretending to be a fierce warrior princess, it's the perfect accessory.

He lets her tow him closer. "Sure." He may spoil his sister's kids a little too much, but he doesn't care.

Up close, he sees that they're actually really well-made; the cut ends of the ribbon are seared so they don't unravel, and when he shakes one, the flowers stay firmly attached.

Eli wiggles until Bellamy lets him down, and the boy makes a beeline for the rack of circlets Nora's also investigating.

"Hey. You can look, but no hands, okay?" Bellamy's not sure if Eli is listening, but Nora at least nods.

"I have c'own?" Eli asks, looking up at him.

Bellamy glances at the frilly, flowery, beribboned crowns filling the booth, ranging in colors from jewel tones to pretty pastels.

He shrugs. "Sure."

"Oh, thank god," a voice says, and he turns to see a woman smiling at him. One of the flower crowns, one that's all different shades of blue, is perched on top of her wavy blonde hair.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I get too many parents telling their boys they can't have one because they're 'too girly,'" she explains.

Bellamy grimaces. "They're kids. Let them wear whatever the hell they want."

"Exactly. It's nice to meet someone who agrees."

"Yeah. And it wouldn't exactly be fair to let my niece have one, but say no to my nephew," he adds.

"Uncle Bell!" Nora pipes up then. "Will you help me?"

He raises an eyebrow and waits.

"_Please_?" Nora adds, popping up and down on her toes with excitement.

"What do you need, kid?" he asks.

She points at the top rack of circlets, just beyond her reach. "Can I have the rainbow one? Please?" Bellamy hands her the circlet and she jams it down on her head.

"Ooh, good choice," the blonde says, and Nora and Bellamy both look over at her. "That one's one of my favorites, with all the colors."

Nora beams at her. "I like yours!" Then she starts twirling rapidly so she can see the ribbons of her circlet float the air.

"What about you, young sir?" the woman asks Eli, crouching down next to him. He startles a little bit at the proximity of a stranger, but Bellamy smiles at him reassuringly when Eli looks around for him.

The blonde waits patiently until Eli looks back at her, a timid smile on his face.

"What color do you like?" she asks. Eli points shyly at one on the middle rack, all greens and blues and purples.

"I like that one too," she says conspiratorially, and sets it carefully on Eli's head. It's a little too big, slipping down and resting on his ears, but when Eli looks at him with a glowing grin, Bellamy nods solemnly.

"Very pretty," he tells the little boy.

"P'itty," the boy agrees in a satisfied tone.

Bellamy hands over a couple bills for the circlets. "Say thank you to the pretty princess," he tells Eli, who looks at the woman with wide eyes.

"P'incess?"

"My real name is Clarke," she says with a mischievous smile. "Not princess."

Her words make Bellamy pause, his interest piquing even more than it had at the sight of her pretty blue eyes and the little beauty mark above her lip. But they make Eli's eyes rapidly fill up instead.

"Not p'incess?" he says. His face screws up and Bellamy stifles a groan just as his nephew lets loose the first wail.

"Way past nap time," he mutters in explanation, stooping to pick Eli up. The boy clings to him like a starfish, and Bellamy murmurs soothing nothings to him while rubbing his back.

"I'm sorry," she says, and she looks genuinely apologetic.

Bellamy opens his mouth to respond, but Nora beats him to it.

"Don't worry," she says matter-of-factly. "Eli cries all the time."

He snorts, and his nephew pulls his teary face out of Bellamy's neck to glare down at his sister. "No!"

"Yeah huh," she sings back to him. "Crybaby Eli!"

"_No_!"

"Nora––" Bellamy starts.

"Just because I'm not a princess doesn't mean you aren't," Clarke says in an offhand manner, and Nora stops making faces at Eli immediately.

"Huh?"

"Well, are you a princess?" Clarke prompts.

Nora nods. "I'm a warrior princess. Sometimes I fight Uncle Bell, but he's really bad at it and always dies really loud."

Clarke looks like she's struggling not to smile as she speaks. "Well, the thing about princesses––even warrior ones––is that they're princesses on the inside, too. And that means always having courage, and always being kind."

Nora squints at her, then her little shoulders droop as she apparently accepts Clarke's words.

"Sorry, Eli," she mumbles, then peeks up at Clarke. When Clarke nods encouragingly, she grins and hugs the blonde tight around the waist before bounding over to Bellamy.

Bellamy had taken in the whole thing in stunned silence, but now he says, "Are you _sure _you're not a princess? Because that was some serious Disney princess shi––er, _stuff_."

Clarke shrugs, her cheeks pink, and opens her mouth to reply when they're interrupted.

"Hey!" A dark-haired young woman greets Clarke, a little out of breath. "Sorry, Jasper was late to pick me up and then we couldn't find a place to park."

"It's fine, Maya," Clarke says. "You're just in time. The judging doesn't start for another ten minutes."

"Judging?" Bellamy interjects curiously.

Maya flashes a distracted smile at him and starts counting the money in the booth's cashbox, but Clarke grimaces at him as she heads away from the booth and into the open area of the festival. Bellamy had planned to head that way next anyway, so he and Nora keep pace with her, Eli once again falling asleep on his hip.

"My mom's kind of the mayor? And she signed me up to judge the festival's pumpkin contest."

Bellamy can't stop the laugh that bubbles out. "Are you serious?"

"What?"

"You're judging _pumpkins._" He waits for her to realize the joke, but she and Nora just stare at him with identical puzzled faces. "What are you supposed to judge _pumpkins _on? How good a carriage they make?"

Her lips form a tiny 'o' when she makes the connection, and she wrinkles her nose at him. "Well, that would certainly be more fun than weighing and measuring them, but sadly, I'm not Cinderella."

"Sure you're not, princess," he says, and she rolls her eyes.

"Have fun at the festival, you two," she tells Nora and Eli. "Keep your uncle in line."

"What line?" Nora asks, confused, and Bellamy grins at Clarke.

"Hey," he says, clearing his throat. "Do you––do you maybe want to meet up later? Maybe tomorrow, when I don't have these two delinquents," he adds, nodding to his niece and nephew.

"But I don't even know your name," she replies, her voice teasing, and he feels himself flush a little.

"Bellamy," he says. "My name is Bellamy Blake."

She considers him, then smiles. "Meet me by the pumpkins at the stroke of twelve."


	19. Old Marrieds

From anonymous on tumblr: "Bellamy and Clarke have all their friends over for dinner in their new place, and Octavia and Raven start teasing them about being old marrieds until Clarke says well actually and shows them the ring..."

* * *

Clarke's pretty proud of their new house. It's a far cry from the tiny apartment they lived in for the last three years, and an ever farther cry from the dorm rooms they lived in when they first started dating.

She and Bellamy are _finally _all moved in: Clarke's art is hung on the brightly-painted walls, Bellamy's bookshelves flank the entertainment center in their living room, the stainless steel pots that were a housewarming present from her parents hang from a pretty rack over the stove in the kitchen island.

Their doorbell rings just as Clarke is starting to slip back into her dinner party clothes––Bellamy may have been the opposite of helpful when she requested a hand doing up her zipper, and while she's flushed and satisfied, she's far from ready to face their friends.

"You're going to get that, and you're going to stall them," she tells him, running her fingers through her embarrassingly obvious sex hair. Bellamy, on the other hand, always looks like he has sex hair, and since he's already dressed no one other than Clarke knows what he's just been up to.

Bellamy grins at her. "Am I?"

Clarke raises an eyebrow as she gives up and starts twisting her hair into a braid. "I mean, I could go answer the door, but I'd have to go like this."

His eyes rake her form up and down, taking in the lacy plum-colored undergarments, the way her exposed skin still glows pink with pleasure.

"Yeah, okay. I'll just––" He points at the bedroom door as the doorbell rings again.

She grins at him. "I'll be out in a minute."

He starts to leave the room, then darts over to her and kisses her quickly.

"Hurry up, princess," he says, and closes the door behind him.

She does; just moments later, she's wearing her favorite dress (what, it has _pockets_) as she slips into the living room to greet their friends.

It's funny how they've all settled into pairs, and Clarke's just grateful that none of them are annoying assholes she has to put up with just because they're dating her friend. Raven is admiring the welded candlesticks on the mantle––her own handiwork, as Clarke can hear her pointing out to Wick, who's got his arm around Raven's waist. Octavia's leaning into Lincoln's side while she eggs on Monty and Jasper. The two are arguing about whether Portal 2 is more fun in single player or in co-op mode, and Maya and Miller are watching in fond exasperation.

Bellamy's nowhere to be seen, and Clarke spends a few minutes saying hello before wandering into the kitchen to find him.

He's pulling the lasagna out of the oven; once he's set it down on the stove, she slips her arms around his waist and rests her cheek on his back.

"You look good in our kitchen."

She can feel him laugh as he lets her lean on him. "I see how it is now. I'm just a pretty prop for your perfect new house."

"Damn straight," she replies, and squeezes him tight enough that he lets out a surprised wheeze.

"Ugh, you guys are so married," Raven says from the doorway. "I need alcohol if I'm going to deal with you like this."

"Shut up," Clarke tells her, but lets go of Bellamy to help her pull out a bunch of different drinks. Their other friends filter in, and Clarke distributes beers, glasses of wine, and sodas to whoever wants what.

"Okay, okay," Bellamy calls over the animated chatter. "Go sit down; dinner's almost on the table."

"I'll grab the salad and the garlic bread," Clarke says. Bellamy drops a kiss on her mouth, and Clarke blinks at him.

"Had to get one in before you singlehandedly eat all of the garlic bread," he teases, and she sticks her tongue out at him.

"See? They act so married," Clarke hears Raven say.

"Totally. They're like an eighty-year-old couple trapped in young, hot bodies," Octavia replies.

Bellamy nudges Clarke with an elbow; the lasagna is in his oven-mitt-clad hands.

"You hear?" she says. "We're young and hot."

"We've already established that you're with me for my pretty looks," Bellamy replies. "Hurry up and grab the food."

Their friends fall upon the meal as if they haven't eaten in a week, and somehow all that's left of the bread for Clarke is a pitiful heel. She drinks her soda and eats the rest of her food, but stares at the little piece of bread mournfully. Bellamy was only exaggerating a little earlier; Clarke _loves _his garlic bread.

She hears a dramatic sigh, and a big hunk of it appears on her plate as Bellamy trades his piece for hers.

She turns and beams at him. "I love you."

"Yeah, yeah, love you too," he says, using the bread to mop up the sauce left from his lasagna while Clarke scarfs down the bread.

It's Jasper who snorts this time. "You guys are ridiculous. My parents' thirtieth anniversary was last month and they act less married than you two."

"Jasper, be nice," Maya says. To Bellamy and Clarke she adds, "I think you two are sweet. You show that you don't need to be married to be committed." The last word is said in a very pointed manner, and Jasper flushes.

Clarke glances at Bellamy, and he answers her unspoken question with a nod. She smiles back, then turns to their friends.

"Well, actually," she says, and sets her left hand on top of the table. The ring she'd slipped out of her pocket gleams from her finger.

"Holy _shit_," Raven exclaims, grabbing her hand and pulling it closer to her eyes. "Is that thing real?"

Clarke snorts. "I'm not going to wear a fake engagement ring."

Octavia shrieks, standing up and making her way around the table to throw her arms around Clarke. Clarke laughs as the other woman squeezes her tight and presses their cheeks together.

"Congratulations," Lincoln says when he gets up to coax his girlfriend back to her seat.

The rest of their friends are suspiciously silent, and that's when Clarke notices the disgruntled expressions on everybody's face but Wick's as they pass him various crumpled up bills.

"Oh my god, did you guys _bet _on when we'd get engaged?" Clarke asks.

Most of them shrug, and Monty replies. "We've bet on everything about you guys," he says. "It's easy entertainment."

Miller sighs. "Six more months and I would have won."

Bellamy grins wickedly at Clarke and winks; she looks back at him, puzzled, until his next words come out of his mouth.

"Yeah, well, we figured it'd be a good thing to do before the kid comes," he says nonchalantly. Clarke stares at him, cheeks heating, and then the room erupts in frantic questions.

"Clarke's pregnant?"

"I'm going to be an aunt?"

"_I'm _going to be an aunt, Raven, jesus; get your own niece!"

"Wait, is it a girl?"

"No, it's a boy, I bet!"

"Does this mean it's a shotgun wedding?"

"I won the baby bet!"

"Seriously, Clarke's knocked up?"

Bellamy bursts out laughing then, and their friends' faces all fall as one.

"You idiots," he says. "Of course she's not!"

There's a lot of grumbling, and Octavia gets up again just to punch Bellamy in the arm. Clarke's remained silent throughout the commotion, trying to make her throat work.

Bellamy's still smirking when she finally manages to clear her throat quietly. He glances over at her.

"Well, actually," she says softly, and then lets the words hang in the air.

He doesn't seem to get it at first, but then all at once his face changes.

"Wh–what?"

Rather than the outburst that followed Bellamy's "announcement," this time their friends are dead silent as they all stand up from the table.

"Uh, thanks for dinner," Raven says. "You two just…talk amongst yourselves. We'll see ourselves out."

The others chime in with rapid goodbyes, and then the front door is closing behind them faster than Clarke could ever have imagined.

"So," Clarke says eventually, twisting her engagement ring around and around her finger. "Good dinner party."

"_Clarke_."

She sighs and meets his eyes.

"You're pregnant?" he asks. He looks like he's seconds away from either passing out or yelling.

"Uh huh," she says.

"I…you're _pregnant_?"

"According to, like, six pregnancy tests," she replies.

"Holy shit," he says.

"Uh huh," she says again.

"Clarke?"

"_What_, Bellamy?" She's starting to get a little irritated by his non-response to the whole thing, mostly because she didn't at _all _mean to tell him like this and it's not exactly a planned thing and she knows he _loves _her, but she's kind of going out of her mind now that it's out there and he's not saying _anything––_

His hands frame her face and he covers her mouth in a frantic kiss, lips catching and tongues touching until Clarke can barely breathe.

"I thought you didn't want to kiss me after I ate garlic bread," Clarke blurts out when the kiss finally slows and they pull apart to breathe.

Bellamy laughs and presses his forehead against hers.

"I couldn't care less about that right now, Clarke."

(Clarke spends the months leading up to their wedding explaining that it's _not _a shotgun wedding if they got engaged because they wanted to, not because she got pregnant; Bellamy is absolutely no help, and spends the entirety of their engagement and her pregnancy looking positively smug.)


	20. Idiots

From bellamyblake-rocksmy-socks on tumblr: "Bellarke + they're always hanging out together and they're just good friends, but everyone thinks they're together and the surprise when they announce they finally are, so everyone is like 'you weren't together before?' Bonus if it involves them getting caught making out by their entire friend group."

* * *

Clarke's not exactly sure when they became friends. Sometime, she thinks, between that time they had a screaming argument about a _Harry Potter _plot point and that time they conspired together to get Miller and Monty to go _out _with each other, already.

But while she's not sure when their friendship started, she knows the exact moment it solidified into something that was going to stick.

Four months ago, Bellamy showed up at the apartment she shared with Octavia and Raven, eyes glassy and cheeks red. He tried to make excuses to leave when he found out both his sister and Raven were out. But she had taken one look at him and proceeded to bundle him onto their admittedly crappy couch with one of her own pillows and an afghan while she made him her dad's vegetable soup.

"You forgot the salt," he had grumbled, but he ate the entire bowl in a matter of minutes before wriggling down on the couch and falling asleep with his head in her lap. After resisting for a couple moments, she had given in and started combing her fingers through his hair while he snored quietly, little puffs of breath warming her belly when he snuggled closer in his sleep.

Since that day, things between them have been different.

Octavia's spending more time than ever with Lincoln, and Raven's busy in the lab working on a collaboration with a visiting engineer. So Clarke's left mostly to her own devices, and so is Bellamy, and somehow she finds herself spending most of her free time hanging out with him.

He still bugs the shit out of her, of course, criticizing her taste in books when she spends a rainy afternoon reading romance novels on his couch; in return she calls him a book snob and takes way too much joy in messing up the alphabetical organization of his bookshelves. Clarke takes to stealing his mug for a gulp when she gets sleepy studying, and he gripes and grumbles, but switches from dairy to soy milk when she complains about it hurting her stomach.

She never imagined how easily she and Bellamy Blake could slip into a deep, effortless friendship like this. Of course, most friends probably don't notice the way water trickles down their friend's bare chest to disappear underneath his towel when he walks from the shower to his bedroom. Or the way that friend smiles so sweetly at her when he's sleepy. Or the way his hair feels against her cheek when it gets too long, and she's leaning against him as they watch television. Most friends probably don't notice that stuff. But Clarke's working on that, really. It's not a big deal.

Because mostly, being friends with Bellamy is just really, really great.

Clarke's sitting cross-legged in his kitchen one morning, trying to blink the sleep out of her eyes. She'd fallen asleep on Bellamy's couch the night before during a Marvel movie marathon, and had woken up to morning light streaming through his ugly curtains. There had been a blanket over her body, a pillow under her head, and a post-it on her forehead reading _I texted Octavia and Raven that you fell asleep here, narcoleptic._

She's seconds away from falling asleep again right there at the dining table when a mug of coffee is plunked down in front of her. It's one she hasn't seen before––Bellamy's partial to plain white mugs, and this one is bright blue with little crowns and the words "Keep Calm and Caffeinate." She blinks at it, then seizes it and takes several huge gulps.

Only then does she beam at Bellamy, who's collapsed in the seat next to her.

"Your loser friends are coming over in a bit," he tells her, and slurps obnoxiously from his own mug.

Clarke snorts. "They're your loser friends, too."

"Uh, I'm pretty sure they're not."

She uncrosses her legs just so she can kick him under the table.

"Miller was your friend first, and I know for a fact you had him and Monty and Jasper over for a Halo party just last week. Which, by the way, pissed Raven off because you didn't invite her."

"Okay, first of all we don't call it a 'Halo party,' and second of all I didn't invite her because she would have crushed every one of us. Miller still has war flashbacks from the Halo Fiasco at her birthday last year," Bellamy says.

"Uh huh," she replies dryly. "And you say they're not your friends?"

"Correct," he says. "Maybe Miller. But all the others are your friends only."

"You realize how pathetic it is to insist you only have, like, two friends?"

"I thought you went to college, princess. You need to brush up on your counting skills," Bellamy says, nudging her ankle with his foot.

She frowns at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Miller is only one person," he replies. "Unless you're counting Octavia or something."

Clarke sets her mug down. "You don't count me as one of your friends?"

Bellamy pauses. "Uh."

She knows she's making a mountain out of a molehill, but she's still tired after staying up well past midnight and then sleeping on Bellamy's couch for only a handful of hours.

"Because if we're not friends, then what the hell is all this?" Clarke gestures wildly. "Movie nights and hanging out and going to that stupid history museum together for the stupid Ancient Greece exhibit?"

"Hey, we went to that art gallery, too!"

"That's not the _point_, Bellamy," she bites out. "Do you do all those things with someone you don't even like enough to call your friend?"

"What? No, I––of course I like you, Clarke," he says, looking bewildered.

"Really? Because if you like someone, you're friends, but apparently we're not."

"No, I'm sorry, Clarke. We're friends. You're my friend," he says, voice low and soothing as if he's trying to calm a wild animal.

She glares at him and stands up from the table abruptly, shoving her chair back. "Well, too late. I don't want to be your friend anymore." She starts to turn away, but then stops and slides her mug across the table to him. "And I _don't _like the mug you got me."

Bellamy catches her wrist in his hand and ruins her attempt to dramatically storm away.

"Clarke, calm down. It was just a joke."

"_Don't _tell me what to do," she replies, tugging ineffectually at his grasp.

Bellamy sighs and grabs her around the waist, pulling her down into his lap where she stills, shocked.

"Fine," he says. "We're not friends." But he makes no move to let her go.

"That's not––not-friends don't sit in their not-friends' laps," Clarke says.

"Friends don't usually sit in their friends' laps either," he points out. One of his arms is locked around her waist; his other hand is resting on her hip. His thumb starts to slowly brush back and forth over the fabric of her leggings, and tiny frissons of excitement run up her spine even as she does her best to scowl at him.

"Then what are you doing?" she demands. She's all-too-aware of her slept-in clothes, her mess of bedhead, her no-doubt awful coffee breath.

"I don't want to be your friend, either," he tells her, and then he kisses her.

Clarke doesn't move. At all. She's too stunned by the soft pressure of his mouth, the heat of his hand sliding up from her hip and under her shirt to rest on her back, the fact that it's the first time he's ever kissed her but she thinks she could happily spend the rest of her life being kissed by Bellamy Blake.

He pulls back and looks at her nervously. "Come on, Clarke, you've got to give me something to go on here. Should I be fearing for my life, or...?" He trails off as a smile spreads across her face.

"Or," she tells him, and drags him back down to her mouth.

This time she moves her lips against his with purpose, sucking and licking at his lips until he opens his mouth and she can taste the coffee and _him_, and he clutches her tighter.

Then the front door opens and slams shut, and Clarke and Bellamy separate, heads turning at the sound of their friends' loud voices. Abruptly, the voices stop.

All of their friends––_all of them_––crowd into the doorway to the kitchen, looking at them. She waits, frozen, Bellamy just as still as she is, for the outburst of shock and disbelief sure to follow.

But all they get is a couple of shrugs and an, "Oops, sorry!" from Octavia. "We'll just go get the movie set up."

Their friends turn away, and Clarke's jaw drops. "Wait, what?" she says. "That's all you have to say?"

Monty looks puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Clarke glances at Bellamy, who looks just as confused and somewhat indignant. "This," he says, gesturing between him and Clarke. "Why is no one commenting on catching princess and me locking lips in the kitchen?"

Miller snorts as Jasper says, "Because…you're _together_?" with the air of the obvious.

"No, we're not!" Bellamy replies, and then stumbles over his words. "I mean, we are _now, _but we weren't before!"

Clarke stares at him, lips slightly parted. "Wait, we are?"

Bellamy stops, looks her up and down where she's still perched on his lap. "Well…aren't we?"

"Um," Clarke says. "Yes?"

"Good," he says, a smile curving his lips.

"Good," she echoes.

"You weren't together before?" Raven asks. "Fuck, you two are idiots."


	21. Lead Me Out On The Moonlit Floor

From blakesdoitbetter on tumblr: "Bellarke slow dancing at Octavia's wedding. They've been hooking up for a year "casually" but they're both kidding themselves and with the dancing and the heart eyes and the emotional song/day in general they finally get it together."

Note: The song that they're dancing to is The Fray's cover of "Kiss Me." Title of this chapter is from the same song! Treat yo self and have a listen.

* * *

Raven is nowhere to be found.

Clarke had figured that would be a risk when she dragged her best friend along to Octavia's wedding as her plus one. But she didn't expect Raven to disappear so _soon_. Her college roommate's reception has barely gotten started, and already that scruffy groomsman and Raven are missing.

Bellamy plops down in the seat next to her and Clarke hopes it's not too obvious, the way every inch of her sparks to life at his proximity.

So much for using Raven as a buffer so Clarke could get through Octavia's wedding without wanting to drown herself in the open bar.

"Come here often?" he asks.

Clarke gives him a dirty look, and he has the decency to look embarrassed by the horrible line. His expression doesn't make him any less attractive to her, unfortunately. The lush gardens hosting the wedding are lit up by twinkling string lights as twilight fades into night, and the soft glow throws the angles of his face and jaw into sharp relief.

"Don't you have, like, brother-of-the-bride duties to be doing?" she asks to distract herself.

He looks over to where a radiant Octavia is being twirled around by a beaming Lincoln. "Nope. I paid all of the deposits on the wedding shit, I put on a fucking tux, I walked her down the aisle––I'm pretty much done."

Clarke can't help but soften a little when she hears the hitch in his voice, but before she can say anything, Bellamy catches her looking at him and clears his throat.

"You, uh––you look nice," he tells her softly.

"Oh," Clarke replies. "Well, you know. Dress code." Octavia does nothing by halves, and the wedding is black tie, so Clarke is in a strapless blue gown, her hair somewhat tamed for once.

"No, Clarke––" Bellamy lets out a little growl. "You look fucking beautiful, okay?"

She stares at him, warmth curling around her heart at his earnest words. And because Clarke is an idiot, and can't manage to take a compliment from him when he's looking at her like that, she says, "You know you don't have to compliment me, right? You'll get in my pants no matter what."

Bellamy looks a little bit like he's been punched in the gut, and doesn't respond other than to avert his eyes and shrug.

Clarke knows she should be satisfied. They're friends, and the sex is good––really good. He knows just how to rile her up even more when she's already pissed to give her one hell of an orgasm; if she's sad, he knows just how playful to be to have her laughing as she climaxes. She loves it best when he buries his face in her neck, murmuring her name as he strokes slowly in and out of her, their fingers laced together.

The problem is that she kind of loves _him_, too.

And now she needs a drink or five.

"Damn it, Raven," Clarke mutters quietly.

Bellamy glances over at her. "What was that?"

Clarke pastes on a smile. "Nothing. Just, you know, people-watching. I think I might get a drink."

He eyes her thoughtfully, then shakes his head and stands up.

"Excuse me?" Clarke replies. "Are you telling me I _can't _get a drink?"

"No, but I've seen you after you've had a couple drinks. I want to get a dance in before you start acting like gravity is fighting you," he says, smirking, and holds out his hand.

Clarke looks from it to his face and back. "Um."

Dancing with Bellamy sounds like a _terrible_ idea.

"Come on, princess. Please?"

_Fuck._

"Okay," she says, and lets him help her up from her seat and lead her to the dance floor.

Once there, she's not quite sure how it's going to work. They've danced together before, sure, but always out at clubs and once at the Retro Night downtown. She's never danced with Bellamy to anything like the slow song drifting through the air, lyrics so sweet she gets goosebumps.

But Bellamy's apparently got it all figured out, pressing his front against hers, sliding a gentle hand down to her waist while the other curls carefully around her fingers. He's holding her like she's fragile, and Clarke is not surprised to discover how much she likes it.

He starts them swaying, and Clarke's mouth is dry. She has to work to be able to speak, but eventually she manages to say, "It was a really beautiful wedding, Bellamy."

He just nods, eyes locked on hers. Her heart is beating too fast for the slow pace of the music.

She wets her lips, wonders how long it would take her to count all his freckles, or if she even could.

"I––"

"Clarke––"

They both pause. "You go ahead," Clarke says, squeezing his hand.

Bellamy lets out a breath. "Okay. Clarke, I…it's just––" He breaks off with a frustrated sound. "Shit."

She frowns as his eyes search hers. "Bellamy?"

"Fuck," Bellamy mutters under his breath, and then he ducks down to press his mouth to hers.

Clarke tenses, and she can tell he feels it when the fingers on her waist squeeze her tighter, and he kisses her harder.

He's never kissed her like this––kissed her when they're not having sex, when they're in public. Ever.

Clarke is terrified, and thrilled.

"Clarke," he murmurs in between kisses. "Clarke."

She whimpers and yanks her hand out of his; he stumbles away from her in surprise, but she just uses both of her hands to pull him back to her and kiss the hell out of him.

It's his turn to freeze, though to his credit he doesn't take as long as she did to realize what was happening, and his fingers thread into her hair.

"You're ruining my updo," she says. He laughs into her mouth.

"Sorry," he says, sounding absolutely unapologetic.

She pulls his lower lip through her teeth in retaliation, and he lets out a broken groan.

"Hey, guys?"

Bellamy jerks away from Clarke and looks over at his sister, who's dancing nearby with Lincoln and watching them with a wildly amused smirk.

He looks a little dazed as he replies, "Yeah, O?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm super glad you guys are moving on from making out in secret to making out in public, but you might want to cool it a little before you give all the guests a show."

Clarke hides her heating face against his chest. She can feel the laughter vibrate through him as he wraps his arms around her back and starts to sway them back and forth again.

"Let us dance in peace, Octavia," she hears him say. "Go smash cake in Lincoln's face or something."

"I'd say don't tell me what to do, except that sounds like a great idea," Octavia replies, and Clarke peeks around Bellamy to see her friend gleefully leading her new husband toward the dessert table.

"Clarke?"

She looks up; Bellamy's watching her, lips swollen and eyes bright, jaw moving in that nervous way of his.

"Yeah?"

"Will you be my date for the rest of my sister's wedding?"

Clarke pauses, letting his question sink in, warming her all the way down to her toes.

Bellamy Blake wants to date her.

A smile spreads across her face. "Well, Raven seems to have deserted me for the groomsman, so I guess I have to say yes."

Bellamy flushes. "Well, about that. I might have offered her a hundred bucks to ditch you early."

He cringes when she smacks him on the arm. "Bellamy! Why would you do that?"

"I just––I don't know, I thought you were coming with a date because Octavia told me you had a plus one. And when I saw it was just Raven, I figured…" Bellamy shrugs sheepishly. "I guess I figured it might be a good time to…uh, dance with you."

"I'm not––" She looks away, then back at him. "I haven't actually gone on a date with anyone in months."

"Until now," he reminds her, almost shyly. "Because you said you'd be my date."

She can feel her blush returning, but she nods. "Yeah. Until now. Though to be honest, I'm feeling a little gypped. Is it a whole date if it only starts halfway through a wedding?"

He shakes his head and holds her close, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I don't think so. We'll have to go on another one soon, to make up the difference."

(He's on her doorstep with flowers the very next afternoon.)


	22. Bartenders

From blakesdoitbetter on tumblr: "Bellarke, obvi, are locally famous bartenders who have a weird psychic connection and they do all these drink gimmicks like matching drinks to customers personalities and throwing things at each other/catching them without even looking up, etc. but Clarke is tiny and Bellamy is huge so one day after celebrating Clarke passing her bio final, she gets a lil schwasted and he gives her a piggyback ride home where she cuddles into him the whole time ;)"

* * *

Tonight is not their usual kind of night at Grounders.

On a normal night, he and Clarke race to see who can pull a pint faster; they makes bets about what kind of drink a customer is going to order, and the loser does the mopping after they close; when things are slow, they juggle a likely dangerous number of bottles between them.

But none of that's happening tonight.

Tonight, Clarke is not the one tossing him bottles or spinning tins down her arms. Tonight, Clarke's the one slamming empty shot glasses down on the bar and calling for another.

"You're not Thor," he tells her, but fixes her another shot of whiskey anyway.

"Obviously," she sneers at him. "Thor _breaks _his cup when he wants another."

"If you break anything, I'm telling Kane and it's coming out of your pay," he warns her when he catches her eyeing the stack of empty shot glasses speculatively.

"He can't do that," she says petulantly. "I'm not on shift. It would come out of _your _pay," she adds, leaning over the bar to poke him. He has to drop the rag he's using so he can catch her shoulders when she overbalances and nearly topples over onto his side of the bar.

"Oops," she giggles, and pats his chest as he settles her back on her stool.

"You alright there?" he asks, fighting a smile as she blinks blearily at him.

"I'm _so _alright," Clarke replies. "I'm _peachy. _Biology is dumb and gross and not peachy, and it's _over." _

"Congratulations," he tells her for at least the fifth time that night.

He _is _happy for her; over the course of the semester he'd gotten more and more worried as the circles under her eyes got darker, and her mouth looked more and more pinched whenever she tried to smile.

She still looks tired––she only took her bio final that afternoon, after all––but now she also looks relaxed and happy and drunk off her ass.

"I wan'another," she slurs, and Bellamy glances at the clock. There's still fifteen minutes until closing, but Clarke's the only person still there, so he might as well start shutting things down.

"I think it's time to slow your roll," he tells her, and starts cleaning up her empty glasses.

"Noooo," she whines, but pillows her head on her arms to watch him.

He ignores her in favor of balancing out the till, wiping down the counters and tables and taps, setting the clean glasses out to air dry. He does a quick mop job behind the bar and plans to do the rest of the place when he comes in to open tomorrow.

He works quickly, but Clarke's eyes are drooping nonetheless when he finally shoves his wallet and phone into his pocket.

"Hey, Clarke. Time to go home."

"'m tired," she says, and snuggles into her arms.

He plants a hand on her back and rubs gently. "I know, but your bed isn't that far away. You'll feel better sleeping on a mattress than on the bar."

She grumbles a little but pushes herself of the stool and to her feet.

"Whoa," she says when she sways. Bellamy steadies her. Her eyes are glassy and she's probably the farthest from sober he's ever seen her.

"You can't walk home like this," he realizes. Not that he was going to let her walk home alone at three in the morning, but she can't actually _walk. _

"Nope," she says cheerfully. She holds out her arms. "Carry me!"

"Fuck. Hold on," he tells her. He helps her wobble out the door, and props her up against the side of the building while he locks up and pockets the keys.

"Okay, come here," he says. She blinks at him and holds out her arms like a toddler wanting to be picked up.

Bellamy snorts. "Uh, I don't think so. Not if I want to be able to lift my arms in the morning." He turns around and crouches, offering his back; she makes a little noise of realization and drapes her body over him, linking her arms around his neck. He reaches back and grasps her thighs, and when he stands she squeals.

"I'm so tall!"

He can't see her face, but he can feel her breath hit his jaw as she peeks over his shoulder.

"No, _I'm_ tall. You're a short-legged mushroom."

"You're a _giant_," she hisses. A moment later: "I like it."

He laughs. "I aim to please."

It's not far to Clarke's apartment, only about five blocks, and his is another three beyond that. He follows the route on autopilot, his body so conditioned by countless nights of walking Clarke home after her shift that he doesn't have to pay any attention to the passing streets.

It may be the beginning of summer, but the air is cold this late at night. He tries not to focus on how he can feel the way it's affecting her, what with the way her front is plastered to his back, only separated by the thin layers of their shirts.

"You're so toasty," she mumbles, breath hot against his ear. He has to tighten his grip on her thighs so he doesn't drop her or something.

"Toast, toast, toast," she sings quietly. "Bellamy, Bellamy, hey. If you were toast, would you want, like, jam or nutella on you?"

Bellamy lets out a helpless laugh. "I don't know. What would _you_ want?"

"Mmm," she sighs. "Lemon curd."

"Okay," he says slowly. "Got a reason?"

"'Cause it's like you," she says. "Tart, you know? Kind of sour. But mostly sweet."

He gives in to the smile. It's not as if she can see, anyway. "Why Clarke, is that your way of saying you want me all over you?"

Bellamy doesn't expect her to say, "Probably."

He thanks god he doesn't trip and hurt them both, though it's a near thing.

"Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy." She chants his name until he shakes off his shock.

"What, Clarke?"

She gives him a full body hug, squeezing his hips with her thighs and his shoulders and chest with her arms. "You're my favorite."

"You're not so bad yourself, princess," he tells her, and squeezes her thighs gently.

"No," she says, dragging out the word. "You're my _favorite-_favorite."

His heart thumps painfully, and he has no idea what to say to that––what does that even_ mean_?––but it doesn't matter, because they're already in front of her apartment building.

"You got your keys, Clarke?"

She hums quietly and wriggles until he carefully sets her down, turning to make sure she stays steady now that her feet are back on the ground.

Clarke digs into the pockets of her jeans––her really tight jeans, he notices, the ones that nearly made him swallow his tongue the first time she wore them to a shift.

"Oh," she says.

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"No keys," she tells him, blue eyes big and earnest.

"Wait, seriously?" he asks. When she nods, he sighs.

"You probably left them in the bar," he says, and drags a hand over his face. "Fuck, okay. Come on."

He lets her climb onto his back again, and he starts trudging along.

"The bar––" she yawns. "The bar's the other way."

"Yeah, no. I'm not walking all the way back to the bar just to get your keys tonight. You can stay at my place."

"Cool," she says, and rests her chin in the crook of his neck.

She's pretty quiet for the rest of the walk, and he has to jiggle her every now and then to make sure she doesn't fall asleep on him. His apartment is two floors up with no elevator, and he doubts he could get them both up in one piece if she was dead weight.

"Okay, time to get down," he says, panting a little bit when they've made it to his front door.

"Uh uh," she says, and tightens her grip.

"Clarke," he warns. "I'm going to drop you if you don't get down."

She ignores him, and he lets go of her thighs. She just clamps them hard around his waist, clinging to him like a koala, and he sighs and unlocks the door.

"You want to get down _now_?" Bellamy asks after flipping the deadbolt. "You need to drink some water and go to sleep."

He can feel her hair tickle his neck as she shakes her head. "I like it here."

He's lucky she's as small as she is, because he's able to go get her water and aspirin without much trouble. He turns the light on in his bedroom and sets the glass and pills on the nightstand.

"Now?" he asks.

"No," she chirps.

"Okay, but you brought this upon yourself," he replies, and carefully flops down on his bed, squishing her between his body and the mattress.

Instead of urging him to get up or smacking him or something, she bursts into giggles and tightens her limbs even more.

"Clarke––" he starts, and then cuts off with a strangled gasp when she presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his neck. "_Shit_, Clarke!"

He wants nothing more than to stay right fucking there and let her do whatever the fuck she wants to him, and that's why he finally pries her arms and legs from around him and leaps up.

"I––Clarke––you––" he tries. She snuggles into his pillow and watches him with a soft smile.

"What?" she asks.

"You're still drunk," he says, taking in the bright pink of her cheeks and the glossy shine of her eyes as a sour feeling makes itself known in his gut.

"So?"

"_So_, you––I––you shouldn't be doing things. Like that," he finishes lamely.

"Why?" she asks. "You're my favorite."

He groans. "Clarke––"

"_Bellamy_," she mimics. "You're my _favorite. _Ever."

He opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. "Oh."

"Even though you're a huge nerd," she adds thoughtfully. "And a _giant._"

He swallows. "Well. You're my favorite, too. Even though you're a pixie-sized know-it-all."

"Good," she says in satisfaction. "I'm sleepy. Come to bed."

"Uh." His brain short-circuits a little at the thought of curling up around Clarke in his bed, holding her all night, waking up with her in the morning.

But.

"I should probably sleep on the couch," he says. "I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and not remember how you ended up in my bed with me."

"You're dumb," she yawns. "I'd like it even if I didn't remember."

"Still," he says. "I'd rather finish this conversation when you're sober and will for sure remember everything."

"Mm, fine," she breathes, and her eyes drift closed.

He hesitates, then stoops down to kiss her forehead. "Sweet dreams, Clarke," he says softly.

She mumbles a little, something that almost sounds like his name, and then she's out.

* * *

He gets up early the next day while Clarke is still asleep to run to the market; when she stumbles out of his bedroom, there's a plate of toast and a brand new jar of lemon curd waiting for her on the table. Bellamy waits, nearly sick to his stomach with nerves, to see if she gets it––if she remembers.

She looks from him to the table and back, and rolls her eyes as a smile takes over her face.

"I _told _you. A little sour, but mostly sweet."


	23. Forest Kisses

From anonymous on tumblr: "Bellarke and surprise forest kisses"

* * *

Even though it would do wonders for Bellamy's peace of mind if she stayed in camp, Clarke still insists on going out into the forest to find her own herbs for the medbay. Which is why he's trailing behind her, keeping an eye out for murderous animals as she scours the ground. Well, he's multitasking. He can keep an eye out for murderous animals and watch the cute little waddle of Clarke's stride.

(She would kill him if she knew he thinks it's cute.)

"Why can't you tell the patrols to look for it, again?" Bellamy asks, kicking a pinecone out of his path.

"Because I've already tried that, and they always end up bringing me back crabgrass and clover. Well, the clover is useful," she says. "But their botany skills are pathetic."

"You realize you can't keep going out to look for them yourself forever," he points out.

She stops and turns to glare at him. "I don't take orders from you, Bellamy Blake," she says, poking him in the chest with each word. He grabs her hand and threads his fingers through hers before her pointy little finger can draw blood or something.

"Hey!" she starts, but is surprised into silence by his lips on hers. He keeps it slow and soft, coaxing her into relaxing. When he wraps his arms around her, he can feel the tension leaking out of her muscles, and he starts to rub firm circles on her lower back, right where he knows she's always aching these days.

Clarke breaks the kiss, presses her forehead to his collar and leans into him as she groans. "Feels good," she sighs.

He drops a kiss on her hair, and can feel a little nudge where her rounded belly is pressed against his. The forest is calm and quiet, the air sweet with the scent of spring, the light filtering through the thick overgrowth to make it seem like twilight already. And Bellamy Blake is completely content, holding Clarke Griffin and their unborn child in his arms.

"I'm not trying to boss you around," he murmurs, and she slumps a little more against him.

"I know," she says. "I just…need to do these things while I'm still free to do them whenever I want."

"Hey," he says. "You're not going to be trapped in camp or something once the kid comes, alright? If you really need to get out, I can stay home and Miller or somebody can go looking for petunias or whatever with you."

"I know that," she says, fond exasperation in her voice as she looks up at him. "It's just…I'm not sure I'll _want _to leave you, both of you, behind. But gorillas and panthers and babies don't really mix."

Bellamy snorts. "Yeah, not the best combination."

Clarke hums in agreement and kisses his chin. He can't help but grin, knowing she aimed for the little cleft that she's admitted she hopes their child inherits.

"Well, if you don't want to leave, you don't have to. If you decide you do want to go out on little foraging trips, we'll make that work too. And if you don't want _me_ to leave, I won't," he adds seriously. "You're not doing this, any of this, alone, Clarke."

She surprises him by popping onto her toes and kissing him softly. "We're in this together, is what you mean?" she asks, a smile curling her lips.

He brings his hand to her face, sweeps a thumb carefully over her cheekbone. Her eyes flutter closed and he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah, Clarke. Together."


	24. New Neighbors

From feminist14er on tumblr: "Long distance relationship au, please? Or **brand new neighbors au**. Either would be lovely!"

* * *

Bellamy meets his new neighbor bright and early the morning after she's moved in. He's got Scylla on her leash when he notices the blonde stepping out of her own apartment across the landing, dressed in that bright, tight stretchy stuff women seem to like to wear to work out.

Then he sees that she's got a black lab of her own on a leash, and he only has a second to feel the dread.

"Shit," he grunts as Scylla sees the other dog and goes ballistic, pulling and whining, nails scrabbling against the concrete floor as she tries to meet the new neighbors. "Scylla, no!"

The blonde looks up in alarm as she finishes locking her door. "Atlas, heel," she says, and _her _dog plops down into a sitting position at her left side, his tongue lolling out as he watches Bellamy's idiot of a dog.

"I'm sorry," he tells the woman, trying and failing to calm Scylla. "She doesn't bite or jump, I swear. She's just _too _friendly."

She eyes him skeptically. "How is she with other dogs?"

"Good, once the frenzy of the meet and greet is over with," he replies, and can't help but notice how pretty she is in the light of the dawn, her hair shining a pale gold like winter sun. "Yours?"

She raises an eyebrow and glances down at her dog, who still hasn't moved from his heeled position.

"He can handle it," she says, an amused smile curving her lips, and Bellamy's momentarily distracted by the dark little freckle above her mouth.

"Right," he says, a second too late. "Well, is it okay to introduce them? It's pretty much the only way to calm her down."

"Sure," she says. "Atlas, friend."

Bellamy lets go of Scylla's leash and she bounds over to Atlas, who immediately stands and moves forward at the blonde's command.

The second Atlas's nose sniffs near Scylla's muzzle, she quiets, though her limbs still quiver in delight.

Bellamy edges around the two animals until he's within reach of his new neighbor. "Hi. I'm Bellamy," he says. "That terror is Scylla."

She shakes his hand firmly, then crosses her arms and watches the dogs. "Clarke. That's Atlas."

She doesn't seem inclined to say anything else until she suddenly turns to him. "Wait. Like, _Scylla _Scylla? Greek 'rock and a hard place' Scylla?"

He nods, pleased she recognizes it. His sister always makes fun of him for naming his dog after a mythical sea monster. "You know Scylla and Charybdis?"

Clarke stares at him. "My dog's name is Atlas."

"Oh," he says. "Right. Yeah. Also Greek. The whole holding up the sky thing."

He's stumbling over his words like a complete moron, but at the very least it has the effect of coaxing a laugh out of her.

"Do you take her out every morning?" Clarke asks.

"We run, yeah. And most evenings, we'll take a walk if it's nice," he says. "She needs the exercise or she acts like a three-year-old given straight sugar."

She gives him a funny look, and he feels the need to clarify. "I've got a niece. She got into the pantry. It was bad."

She laughs again, and Bellamy figures he's probably pretty pathetic, feeling so pleased just because he can get a pretty girl to laugh at him.

"Atlas is the same. Guess it's a lab thing," Clarke replies. "Listen, can you give me any pointers about where to go? I just moved to town and I'm not even sure where a grocery store is, let alone where to take him."

As she speaks, she taps her thigh and Atlas heels again. A calmer, happy Scylla slinks over and leans lazily against Bellamy's legs.

"There's a dog park," Bellamy says, winding Scylla's leash around his hand. "On Weatherton and 47th. I don't usually take Scylla there, though."

"Yeah, I'm not a fan of dog parks," Clarke replies with a grimace. "They're like massive cages for humans and their dogs."

"I like the river trail," he says. "It's not far, but the way to find it is a little tricky."

"That sounds nice." Clarke scratches behind Atlas's ears, the dog's eyes drooping in pleasure as her own remain fixed on Bellamy's.

"I could show you how to get there. You know, if you want," he offers, willing his voice not to crack like a thirteen-year-old boy's. It doesn't, and he counts it as a victory, because if thirteen-year-old him had been faced with a woman like Clarke, he wouldn't have stood a chance.

Clarke considers him, then nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great." As they finally start to head down to the sidewalk, she tells him, "I do carry pepper spray, just so you know. And I know, like, three and a half jiu-jitsu movies, so if you try to murder me and toss my body in the river I will _totally _kick your ass."

"Noted."

(She doesn't kick his ass, though she sets a hell of a pace on their run. And later, after dinner, they meet up again for the dogs' evening walk.

And the next night.

And the next.)


	25. Caught

From anonymous on tumblr: "Clarke, why are you wearing Bellamy's shirt?"

* * *

"Clarke, why are you wearing Bellamy's shirt?"

Clarke pauses in the middle of organizing the books she's using as sources for her art history term paper. For one panicked moment she wonders if she really managed to screw up that bad, but when she risks a glance at herself she sees the familiar concert t-shirt.

"I'm not?" she replies slowly.

Octavia leans a hip against the kitchen table and raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"

Clarke rolls her eyes and opens her laptop. "Your brother's not the only person in the world to see Imagine Dragons in concert."

"Why are you trying to convince me you're not wearing my brother's shirt?"

"Because I'm not!" she exclaims. She's wearing her _own _shirt, thank you very much. She'd gotten it at the same concert Bellamy had gotten his when they'd gone with their group of friends last year, and she'd purposefully gotten it several sizes too big so she could use it as a comfy sleep shirt.

Octavia opens her mouth to argue again and Clarke narrows her eyes. "Drop it. You may be done with finals, but I have a ten page paper to write and I don't have time for this."

"This isn't over," Octavia warns, tone unimpressed, and leaves Clarke alone in the kitchen.

* * *

Clarke forgets about her roommate's accusations until much later that day. She's nearly done with her paper, and decides to leave the conclusion for tomorrow. All of her other finals and papers are done, and the art history paper isn't due for three days anyway.

She'd heard Bellamy come in at some point around lunchtime, and she pauses just before she enters the living room to make sure she's not going to give everything away the second she lays eyes on Bellamy.

They've made it this long without Octavia noticing anything.

"Hey Bellamy," she says when she sees Octavia's brother sprawled out on their couch, looking painfully bored while Octavia watches television. "Her turn to pick, your turn to suffer?"

He nods, his lips quirking up in a grin. "Save me."

Octavia tosses a dirty look at them both. "Hey, last weekend you picked a fucking _documentary._ I wasted hours of my life learning about papyrus_. _You can handle a couple episodes of _Long Island Medium._"

She turns back to the screen, but Bellamy keeps looking at Clarke. His gaze drifting down her legs makes her skin feel hot all over. Even though it's the middle of the afternoon and she's still in her pajamas, and even though her bedhead is probably greasy, and even though her shirt covers all the essentials, he's looking at her like he wants to eat her alive.

"Like Clarke's shirt, Bell?" Octavia says, not taking her eyes off the screen.

Bellamy jerks like he's been stung by a bee, and Clarke tries not to do the same. They're usually better about being subtle around Octavia.

"Yeah," he says warily, "since I have the same one."

Octavia hums noncommittally, and Clarke shrugs when Bellamy looks at her in confusion.

"Have fun communicating with dead people," Clarke says, and leaves them to their sibling ritual.

Finals week means that chores have been neglected and crap has started to pile up in Clarke's bedroom, so she takes a few minutes to gather up all of her dirty clothes and start running loads through the washer. While the basin fills, she sorts lights and darks, absentmindedly making a list of other chores she really needs to do.

She almost doesn't notice, so consumed with thoughts of cleaning the bathtub and vacuuming her carpet, but at the last second she snatches the grey fabric back out of the washer. It's dripping wet from being submerged in the water, but it's very obviously an Imagine Dragons tour shirt.

Clarke slowly turns it over in her hands, pulling it right-side-out again so she can look at it. Right in the middle of the list of cities on the back is a faint brown outline. She remembers singeing the shirt with the tip of the iron, leaving a little v-shaped mark.

"Why were you ironing a t-shirt?" she remembers Octavia asking when she had complained about messing up her shirt.

"Don't question my life choices," Clarke had retorted, and then had forgotten all about it.

Putting it back in the washer, she yells that she's going to shower. The second she's in the bathroom, she twists and stares at her back in the mirror.

"Fuck," she says.

She's wearing Bellamy's shirt.

The back of the shirt is pristine. The absence of the little brown mark is something Clarke could easily miss, and something Octavia never would.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when the bathroom door opens and Bellamy slips in, locking the door behind him.

"What are you doing?" she hisses at him. "Octavia––"

He cuts her off, hands clutching fiercely at her hips as his mouth takes over hers. "She just left. Bailed on me for Lincoln," he explains in between kisses. "Told me to lock up after myself."

"And your first thought was to join me in the shower?"

"Yup," he replies unapologetically.

She pinches the soft skin above his hip when he moves to busy himself with her throat, and he yelps.

"Hey!" he says indignantly. "What was that for?"

She huffs and turns around. "This!"

"…Sorry you're still clothed?" he says uncertainly.

She rolls her eyes and strips off the shirt, ignoring the faint noise Bellamy makes at the sight of her bare breasts.

"See?" Clarke says, showing him the spot. "_My _shirt has a burn mark."

It takes him a few seconds to drag his attention down to the shirt she's holding out, and a few seconds longer for his brain to restart and realize what he's looking at.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"So when Octavia asked me––"

"Yup," Clarke says. "You must have left it behind last weekend." Octavia and Lincoln had gone to visit his parents for the long weekend, and Bellamy and Clarke had taken the opportunity to finally sleep in a bed together. After three months of sneaking in kisses and quickies whenever they were certain Octavia wouldn't find out, it was a relief to just _be _together.

But they'd slept through the alarm, and it had been a flurry of limbs and clothes as they'd dressed and Bellamy had tried grab his stuff before Octavia came home and caught them redhanded.

"Do you think she guessed _why _you're wearing my shirt" he asks her.

Clarke shrugs and drops the shirt along with her panties. As Bellamy inhales sharply and then starts to tug his own clothes off, she says, "I don't know. Maybe? It's Octavia."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," he declares hastily, and hauls her, giggling, into the shower.

* * *

Squeaky clean with wet hair and pleasantly tired, sated bodies, Clarke leads the way down the hall, contemplating whether or not she wants to try and convince Bellamy to watch _My Big Fat Greek Wedding _withher. She's just opened her mouth to ask when he pulls her back against his chest, tucking his chin into the curve of her neck and nibbling.

Clarke smiles and squeezes the arms banded around her waist. "Bellamy––"

She freezes and goes silent when she looks into the living room, and Bellamy lefts his mouth a little. "What––Clarke?"

Clarke just points, and Bellamy makes a strangled-sounding noise when he, too, spots Octavia watching them from the couch, arms crossed, eyebrow arched, earbuds jammed firmly into her ears.

"We got to the bridge," Clarke mutters, then sighs. She reaches back for Bellamy's hand and together they shuffle toward their doom.

"I fucking knew it. You think you're so sneaky!" Octavia exclaims, a couple decibels too loud, when they sit down. Bellamy reaches across Clarke to yank the earbuds out of his sister's ears, and Clarke can hear the music blaring out of the tiny speakers.

"You should speak louder. I don't think the people in Europe can hear you," he tells her.

She sneers at him. "I didn't want to accidentally hear any of your sex noises," she says. "I love you and Clarke and all, but that's disgusting."

"It would have been your own damn fault," Bellamy grumbles, though he looks a bit revolted at the thought. "You were supposed to be gone until tomorrow."

"Why _are _you here?" Clarke asks.

The look Octavia directs at them both reminds her of the way her mother looked when Clarke was eight and the stray kitten she'd brought home without permission ended up using her mother's basket of clean laundry as a litter box. Irritated, more than a little long-suffering, but just a little bit fond.

"You two losers wouldn't tell me!" Underneath the irritation and the fondness is the faintest note of hurt, and that's what has Clarke shifting guiltily. "I had to go on a freaking stake out just to prove my brother and my best friend are together!"

Bellamy groans. "We were _going_ to tell you, O."

His sister watches him, eyebrow still raised. "Uh huh."

"Really," Clarke adds. "We just decided to do it after finals were over and it wouldn't freak you out."

Octavia snorts. "That's a crappy excuse and you know it."

"_If anybody tries to distract me from studying for this stupid chemistry exam, I'm going to set them on fire_," Clarke recites from memory. It had only been the third week of the semester and Octavia had already been on edge, snapping at everyone as the stress of her most hated class took its toll.

"And then you threw your textbook so hard at the wall you left a hole," Bellamy reminds her. "I had to spend an hour fixing it."

"And then I had to spend three hours on a painting to hang over the spot he 'fixed,'" Clarke says. "And he got offended and wanted to know why I thought his repair job wasn't good enough––"

"Even thought it _was_," he interrupts, "and _Clarke _wouldn't stop talking about proper spackling technique, and then––"

He stops abruptly, and Clarke bites her lip to keep in her smile at the thought of what happened next. His hot mouth on hers as he had backed her against the wall, the way his lips had moved so carefully, belying the irritated words he had just uttered.

"Seriously?" Octavia says flatly. Clarke thinks she's about to yell at them for hiding their relationship for as long as they have, but instead the other girl says, "_That's _how you made your move, Bell?"

"Well––"

"And you!" She points at Clarke. "That's just embarrassing. You're going to have to tell your children that their parents got together because their aunt has no impulse control when she's hopped up on Red Bull and their mom knows too much about home repair. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Clarke flushes, but shrugs. "Well, okay, that's probably a little premature, but if that's what I have to say, so be it."

"And you, Bell? You're totally cool telling your spawn that you got with their mom because you wanted to shut her up?"

"Sure," he says absently, and Clarke glances at Bellamy only to see him watching her with the biggest, stupidest grin on his face.

"Oh my _god_," Octavia says, "I can't even be mad when you guys are this pathetic about each other. I'm leaving for real."

She launches herself off the couch and hesitates before throwing her arms around the both of them in a hug.

"I love you and you're both idiots," she says, and then grabs her bag by the front door and leaves.

"You _are _pretty pathetic about me," Clarke tells him when the door closes behind Octavia and they're left looking at each other.

"Shut up," he says immediately. "You just talked about our future children."

"_Hypothetical _future children," she stresses, and when he pushes her down onto the couch and kisses her, they're both smiling.


	26. Boyfriend

From anonymous on tumblr: "Clarke punches a dude in the face. "GET AWAY FROM MY BOYFRIEND." (They are not dating.)"

* * *

In retrospect, it was probably abad idea to go alone to Mount Weather with the sole purpose of drinking until he forgot his baby sister was hooking up with a guy nearly a decade older than her.

"Only _seven_ years," Octavia had insisted, annoyed, when she overheard him ranting to Clarke on the phone earlier that evening. "And Clarke knows him!" Pitching her voice to be heard over the phone, she added, "Tell Bellamy that Lincoln's nice, Clarke!"

"Lincoln's nice," his best friend had repeated dutifully.

"You fucking _know _this guy?" Bellamy had replied. It felt like a betrayal. Clarke _knew _how long it had been just Bellamy and Octavia, and how much Bellamy worried about his sister now that she was living on her own. It was pretty much all he ever thought about anymore, other than the fact that his best friend was beautiful and smart and funny and he was maybe more than a little bit in love with her.

"We met in a watercolor class last year," Clarke had said, her voice gentle. "Bellamy, don't worry about him. He likes to paint flowers. He's nice."

"_I _like to fucking bake _cookies, _Clarke, but that doesn't mean I'm fucking _nice_," he had snarled, hung up, and slammed his way out of Octavia's apartment.

"I'm not _nice_," he mutters now, glaring at his fourth (fifth? _fuck_) beer bottle. "I'm a fucking asshole."

He's not quite sure if he means he's an asshole in general, or he's an asshole because he yelled at Clarke and hung up on her.

"Fucking _asshole_," he repeats loudly, slamming his fist down hard enough that a couple empty bottles rattle against one another.

"What did you call me?"

He glances over, sees some guy in a polo shirt with thick douchey hair looking at him. If Clarke were here, she'd probably call him a douchebro.

(Okay, he wishes she were here. Just a little.

Okay, a lot. After a decade of friendship, he pretty much always wishes she were here.)

"Fuck off," he says. "Wasn't talking to you."

"No, I want you to repeat it," the douchebro says, sliding off his stool and approaching Bellamy. "Say it to my face." A couple of his friends drag themselves to their feet and stand behind him. The looks on their faces has Bellamy snorting; they look like long-suffering soldiers being forced into a reluctant game of follow-the-leader.

"Are you laughing at me?" the douchebro says, voice very quiet.

Bellamy shrugs, takes a swig of his beer. "I don't give enough of a shit about you to bother laughing," he says.

When a hand grabs his collar, yanking him out of his seat, Bellamy's arm jerks and the bottle hits his teeth hard.

"Fuck," he swears, slamming the bottle down and scowling at the douchebro. "Listen, asswipe, I told you I wasn't fucking talking about you."

"Yeah?" is all the douchebro says before he pulls back and punches Bellamy right in the face.

His head moves back a little with the hit, and a sting registers where the douchebro's bulky class ring sliced along his cheekbone, but that's about it.

"What _was _that?" he says. Honestly, at this point he should probably be pissed that he just got punched in the face, but the guy might as well have thrown a handful of paper at him. It hurts that little.

The douchebro's face purples.

"Hey, man," one of the his friends says, pulling at the hand still grasping Bellamy's shirt. "Come on, let's get out of here."

The douchebro shrugs him off, glares at Bellamy. Bellamy can feel the blood trickling down his cheek.

"I'm not _done_," he snarls to his friends, and Bellamy groans, but before he can say anything or the guy can follow through with another hit, a furious voice cuts through the air.

"Get away from my boyfriend!"

It's a goddamn dream come true. Bellamy twists awkwardly in the douchebro's grip to see Clarke bearing down on them, looking like some fucking angel of vengeance or some shit.

Holy _shit._

The douchebro gapes at her, no doubt taking in all the fury packed in such a tiny package (Bellamy has the irrational desire to punch him in the gut; he doesn't deserve to consider _anything _about Clarke), but then narrows his eyes.

"This doesn't concern you, blondie," the douchebro says, and then Clarke hauls back and slams her fist into his nose.

He lets go of Bellamy immediately to bring both hands up to his face, tears leaking between clenched eyelids as he swears.

"The fuck!" he shouts, though the words are muffled through his hands. "You fucking bitch, what the hell?"

"Hey!" Bellamy starts, suddenly furious, but Clarke cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

"Don't," is all she says as she turns her back on the group of guys, all huddling in a concerned group around the douchebro. Clarke pulls him by the back of the neck until he leans down, and for one wild second he thinks she's going to kiss him. Which, he thinks, he really wouldn't be opposed to—

But when he's leaning down far enough for her satisfaction, she just grabs his chin and turns his face so she can examine the cut on his cheek.

Clarke hums. "Shouldn't need stitches."

Then she smacks him on the shoulder. "What the fuck, Bellamy?"

He opens his mouth to respond—how, he doesn't know, given that she looks kind of glorious when she's got that pissed look on her face, and his brain is short-circuiting, and she's still got one hand on the back of his neck—when douchebro shoves his way in between them, glaring down at Clarke.

"My father is on the city council," he says thickly, blood dribbling through his fingers. "I'll have you arrested for assault."

"I know who the fuck you are, idiot," Clarke snaps. "I'm Abby Griffin's daughter."

The douchebro's eyes widen comically at the name of the city's mayor. "Clarke Griffin! I didn't realize you—"

"Go fuck yourself, Cage," Clarke says cheerily, and turns to Bellamy.

Cage and his friends flee the building, and Clarke snags a napkin off the bar to press mercilessly against the cut on his face.

"How drunk are you?" she asks.

He hums, enjoying her touch even as it stings. "Not as much as I was."

"Good," she says, and then Bellamy nearly chokes when she shoves her hand into his back pocket.

"Holy _shit—_" Bellamy cuts himself off before he embarrasses himself anymore as Clarke pulls out his wallet with a raised eyebrow.

"You could've—" He swallows. "You could've asked, princess. Even kindergarteners know how to use their words."

"Like you used your words to have a calm, civil discussion with Octavia about her very nice, very sweet, very serious boyfriend?" she replies, and slides his debit card over to the bartender.

Clarke finishes settling his bill as he sputters, then she tucks his wallet back into his pocket (again, holy _shit_) andpoints to the door. "Out."

"How'd you find me?" he asks to cover up the way her brusque touch is making him react. He's a little curious, but mostly unsurprised. Clarke has a long history of being able to do pretty much anything.

"Logged into your account for the find-your-phone app," she says.

That seems pretty reasonable, until Bellamy remembers that his password is Clarke's name and birthday, and he's pretty damn sure he's never told her that.

"Oh."

She points at the door again. "_Out._"

Octavia lives close enough to downtown that Bellamy left his car at her complex when he stormed over to Mount Weather, so when Clarke starts stalking down the sidewalk Bellamy's not sure what she wants him to do.

"You can sleep it off at my place," she says. "Then you can go apologize to your sister about being a dick. And you know what? You owe me, like, a million cookies for dealing with you tonight." Since she was fifteen, Clarke's regularly demanded cookies as payment for real and made-up infractions on his part. Bellamy tends to just go with it, because Clarke'll usually come over to 'help' and she inevitably gets covered in flour and sparkling sugar, and she's pretty much the cutest thing he's ever seen.

"You can't make me do anything," he grumbles instead, and hurries to catch up to her. For being so short, she sure moves fast.

The cool evening air quickly clears away the remaining fuzziness of his buzz, and as he trudges next to Clarke he thinks he should probably just call a taxi and sleep in his own bed.

Or he could just follow Clarke home, sleep on her stupid, uncomfortable, Ikea couch that she made him put together, and then see her in the morning, all rumpled and grumpy and beautiful. And he could make sure to make the coffee the way she likes it, stirring in the amount of sugar she likes but doesn't let herself have when she makes it herself, and hand it to her with the kind of kiss on the cheek he can get away with giving his best friend.

Bellamy keeps walking to her apartment. He's a pathetic asshole, but he'll take what he can get.

To keep himself occupied, he replays the image of Clarke storming up to Cage in the bar over and over. Something is funny about it though, and he can't put his finger on it until he suddenly realizes—

"Did you call me your boyfriend?"

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and doesn't respond.

"Before you punched douchebro. You called me your boyfriend," he says, way too delighted at the idea of Clarke pretending even for a second that he was her boyfriend, and pokes her in the shoulder.

He expects her to scoff, or roll her eyes, or say something snarky because that's what always happens when they get to moments like this, usually when Bellamy does something dumb like stare at his best friend's mouth for, like, five whole minutes imagining if her cherry chapstick makes her taste as good as it smells.

But she doesn't say anything, just wraps her arms around herself and walks faster, refusing to look at him again or respond. And Bellamy starts getting a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it reminds him how he felt when Clarke convinced him to go on the Spin-Out at the county fair when he was nineteen and she was seventeen and she had found out he'd never gone on an upside down ride ("Gravity works the way it does for a _reason_, Clarke!"). Everything was upside down and he was kind of scared but at the same time Clarke was right there and it was all kind of beautiful.

Yeah, it feels something like that, looking at the tense way she's holding her shoulders, the way her hands are tucked against her sides like she's holding herself back from something.

So of course he fucks it up, asking her as she's unlocking her apartment door, "Why are you being weird?"

She stiffens. "I'm not."

"You called me your boyfriend, and now you're being weird," he insists, making sure to flip the deadbolt and fasten the chain before following her into the kitchen.

"Would you just leave it alone?" she demands. She's glaring at the sink and gripping the edge of the counter like it's the only thing keeping her standing. "It was a stupid slip of the tongue."

"It's a pretty specific slip of the tongue," he prods, and Clarke lets out a frustrated sound as she whirls to face him.

"What the hell do you want me to say, Bellamy? That, yes, I called you my boyfriend? That I'm sorry? That you're not my boyfriend, and I wish you were, because you're a fucking idiot but for some _stupid _reason, I'm fucking in love with you?"

His mouth is dry, and he wonders if maybe he never left the bar, just kept drinking until he hallucinated Clarke arriving and punching and taking him home to tell him she loves him. Honestly, it seems like the kind of thing his mind would come up with.

"Um," he says.

A tear drips off Clarke's chin, and she brushes it roughly away with her knuckles.

"Fuck you, Bellamy," she says tiredly, turning away. "You know where the blankets and stuff are. I'm going to bed."

Bellamy's heart thumps so hard he thinks he might be having a heart attack, and he scrambles to reach her before she escapes into her bedroom. He catches her in the hallway and grabs her shoulders.

"Clarke, wait!"

She wriggles, trying to get out of his hold, and glares at him when she fails.

"I'm tired, and you're drunk, and if you don't let go of me in three seconds I'm going to punch you in the nads."

"I told you, I'm not drunk anymore," he says, and when Clarke starts to snarl at him, he covers her mouth with his.

She squeaks a little, which sucks because Bellamy didn't think he could find her any more adorable, but as usual Clarke delights in proving him wrong.

Her body starts trembling under his fingertips as he kisses her. Bellamy can't remember the first time he imagined kissing her like this, only that it feels like he's always wanted to but it was never the right time, and now that he's _actually_ kissing her, he doesn't want to fuck it up. So he does his best to keep it slow, coaxing, sweet, fitting her lower lip between his and sucking gently until she whimpers and shoves him so hard his back slams against the opposite wall.

"Clarke—?" he whispers, feeling a little like she _did _just punch him in the nads because he can't quite breathe and the look on her face is killing him.

But then she launches herself across the hall, molds her body to his, and kisses him with all the ferocity he'd been carefully holding back.

She tastes sweet and a little bit spicy, like the cinnamon gum she loves so much. Bellamy hates the gum, but he doesn't think he's ever tasted anything as good as Clarke.

Her hands snake under his shirt and he nearly chokes when her nails scratch over his belly.

"Clarke, Clarke, wait," he pants, and she stiffens, pulls away. He almost whines at the loss of her touch, and prays she doesn't try and punch him as he reaches out for her.

She lets him tug her back to him, cheeks flushed and watching him with wary, wild eyes.

"I just—I just wanted to make sure," Bellamy says. She's tense in his arms, and he strokes a hand down her spine, hoping to soothe her. "That you know."

"Know what?" she grumbles, and the sound of her voice sends a bolt of lust straight through him, because she sounds hoarse and dazed and impatient, and it's all because of him.

"That—" Bellamy has to pause, clear his throat, because he sounds pretty wrecked, too, and it's all because of Clarke. "That you know you're my best friend." Clarke grows even tenser. "And I want to be your boyfriend, too."

A second passes, and then her body melts into his.

And she socks him the shoulder. "You're such a dick!" she says, and deepens her voice in a terrible approximation of his. "_Oh, I'm Bellamy Blake and I'm an overdramatic asshole, and I don't know how to express feelings with _words—"

"I'm also fucking in love with you, too," he interrupts mildly, and Clarke's eyes snap to his.

"What?"

"That's what you said, right?" He tries not to sound as nervous as he feels in the face of her shock, but he fails. "That you love me. The more-than-best-friends kind of love."

She nods slowly, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and Bellamy brings a hand to cradle her jaw. The skin under his fingers is soft and smooth, and he runs his thumb across her mouth to tap the little beauty mark above it.

"Awesome," he says, "because you're kind of incredible and I'm definitely in more-than-best-friends love with you."

"You're a huge loser," she tells him, smile spreading across her lips, and she kisses his thumb.

He wonders if he should buy his sister a present or something. It's kind of all her fault that this has turned into the best fucking night of his life.

"You're the one in love with a loser," he points out.

"True." Clarke pauses. "Does that mean you'll bake me cookies whenever I want?"

Bellamy snorts. "Uh, no, because knowing you, you'd wake me up at three in the morning to ask for snickerdoodles," he replies. "But I'll bake you cookies once a week."

She considers it, then nods. "Deal."

"Deal?" he echoes, amused. "I wasn't aware that this was a negotiation."

"Hey," she points out, "I think that you getting access to all _this_?" She gestures at her own body. "Is probably worth negotiation."

He thinks about getting access to _all_ of Clarke, and nearly gives himself whiplash as he nods fervently in agreement.

"I find those terms completely acceptable."

* * *

He's not as enthusiastic when Clarke adds breakfast with Octavia and Lincoln the next morning ( "_Civil _breakfast, Bellamy, _civil_," she stresses) to the terms of their agreement, but he still figures he's getting the best deal of his life.

(He's right.)


	27. Single Parents

From anonymous on tumblr: "single parents au + bellarke"

* * *

Bellamy's settled at the picnic table next to the playground with a stack of essays to grade. He's in middle of giving one of his tenth-graders a B+ when something tugs on his sleeve, making his pen skid across the page.

He sighs and looks down. "What is it, bud?"

"Darcy fell down," Gus tells him solemnly, and that's when he notices the tiny little blonde peeking around his son's side. Her round cheeks are pink and tear-stained, but she's down to sniffles.

"She did?" Bellamy replies, capping his pen. "Any major injuries?"

The little girl––Darcy––looks confused, but Gus nods and points. "Her knee got hurted."

"Hurt," Bellamy corrects. "Where are your parents?" he asks the girl, and her face crumples.

When she starts to cry, tiny, gut-wrenching sobs, Bellamy mentally swears and hopes her parents aren't going to kill him for picking her up. But she can't be more than three years old, and other than Gus she's about the cutest thing he's ever seen, and he's got to do _something _in the face of her sad little tears.

"Hey," he says softly, crouching in front of her and holding out his hands. "It's okay."

She hiccups and throws herself into Bellamy's arms, nearly knocking him on his ass. Once he's got his balance back, he stands up, rubbing a gentle hand on her back.

"Don't worry about it, Darcy," he says. "You can stay right here with us until your parents come." It's only feet from the playground, a prime vantage point for watching the kids, and easily seen by frantic parents in search of a missing child.

"Gus, get the first aid kit out, please," he tells his son, and Gus hurries over to the backpack holding their lunch and the little first aid kit that Bellamy's learned never to travel without. Gus is adventurous––a little _too _adventurous for his peace of mind, but his mother told Bellamy that he'd been just the same.

"Let's get you fixed up, okay?" he says to Darcy, and she pulls her face out of his neck.

"Kay," she says, rubbing at her eyes. She tries to push away the wispy blonde curls that have stuck to her damp face, and wrinkles her nose when she can't get them.

Chuckling, Bellamy sets her down on the table and helps fix her hair. "There you go."

He smiles at her, and she smiles timidly back.

He talks her through cleaning her scraped knee, and though her lip trembles when he uses the antiseptic wipe, she doesn't cry again. Gus is helping her choose between Captain America bandaids and unicorn bandaids when Bellamy hears a shout.

"Darcy!"

"Mama!" Darcy squeaks.

He turns and sees a woman sprinting toward them, and he notes that Darcy's the spitting image of her mother.

"Oh my god," she gasps, shoving past him to grab Darcy's little shoulders, pat down her arms like she's checking for injury. "Baby, you can't scare us like that!" She squeezes Darcy in a hug and lets out a long, shuddering sigh.

"Sorry," Bellamy says awkwardly. He's not sorry for helping the little girl, but he is sorry her mother was so obviously frightened. "Gus brought her over when she fell, and she didn't know where you were."

"No," she sniffs, straightening up. Her golden hair is falling out of a braid, and one piece is tickling right above her mouth where he notices a little beauty mark. "Thank you. My mom was supposed to be watching her while I went to the bathroom, but then she had to take a call, and she lost track of her, and I've been going out of my mind for the last fifteen minutes."

Bellamy opens his mouth to reply, but his son interrupts.

"Daddy fixed her all better," Gus tells her earnestly. "See? Captain Unicorn."

She makes little _oohs_ and _ahs_ at the two different bandaids plastered on her daughter's knee, slightly crooked.

She thanks Gus very seriously for his help, and then hauls Darcy up onto her hip as she turns to Bellamy.

"Thank you," she says again. "Really. I don't…" To his horror, her blue eyes grow glassy and she clears her throat repeatedly.

"Please, don't worry about it," he says hastily. "I just held onto her until you came for her. No big deal."

He can't tell for sure, but he's pretty positive he'd be as gutted by the mother's tears as he was by the daughter's.

She gives him a sincere if watery smile. "It's a very big deal to me. I'm Clarke," she adds, and shifts Darcy so she can hold out a hand.

"Bellamy," he says, shaking it, and then Gus thrusts out his hand for a shake, too.

* * *

When Bellamy's sister comes over for Sunday night dinner, Gus can't wait to tell his Aunt O about his new friend from the playground. Bellamy's stirring the pasta sauce at the stove while Gus chatters away about Darcy, and how she was lost and hurt and they fixed her knee, and then her mommy came and shook Daddy's hand _and _Gus's hand, and then she kissed Daddy, and then Darcy and her mommy had to go home.

"Wait, back it up, mister," Octavia says, and Bellamy groans quietly. "Darcy's mommy _kissed _your dad?"

"Mm hmm," Gus replies.

"On the _cheek_," Bellamy says. "It was a thank you type of thing."

(It was _awesome._)

Bellamy swears he can _feel_ Octavia smirking at him.

* * *

"Wait, Darcy's mom's name is Clarke?" Octavia asks later, over dinner. Gus is _still _going on about his new friends. "Blonde, about my age, super hot?"

Bellamy coughs. "Uh, sure. Yeah," he says, as if he didn't notice just how attractive Clarke was.

"I know her," Octavia says. "Darcy's in my tiny tots class."

He frowns. "But so is Gus." He thinks he'd remember seeing either Darcy or Clarke at the kids' jiu-jitsu lessons his sister teaches.

"Yeah, but he's in the Tuesday-Thursday group. Darcy's in the Monday-Wednesday-Friday class," Octavia explains.

Bellamy makes it a week before he breaks down and lets Octavia know they'll be switching to the Monday-Wednesday-Friday class.

"Gus wanted to see Darcy again," he says, defensive.

"Uh huh," Octavia replies dryly.

* * *

"Hi," he says lamely when Clarke notices him among the other parents in the waiting area. "Is this weird? Crap, this is weird, isn't it."

She blinks, still registering the fact that he's in front of her, then laughs. "No, it's fine. Is Gus just starting here?"

He shakes his head and drags his coat off the bench next to him. To his relief, she takes him up on the silent invitation, sitting in the cleared spot.

It's a popular class, which is why Bellamy had preferred to take Gus to the less busy Tuesday-Thursday sessions. But now he's grateful the waiting area is so crowded, because the length of her thigh is pressed against his as she squeezes in next to him.

"We switched groups," he admits. "My sister actually teaches the class."

Clarke lets out a little 'oh' of realization. "Well, Darcy will be excited to see Gus. My dad's starting to feel replaced as her favorite go-to guy with how much she talks about you two."

"Your dad? Not her dad?" he finds himself asking, and then wants to kick himself because _jesus_, can he be any more obvious?

Her eyes go a little soft and sad, and when she says, "Mine. Her dad passed away before she was born," Bellamy wants to pretty much punch himself in the face.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I didn't––I should've asked."

"It's alright," Clarke says, nudging him with her elbow until he meets her eyes. She makes a show of looking down at his bare left hand, then back at him. "But fair's fair."

"Sole custody," Bellamy explains. "She wasn't interested in being a mom."

Clarke hums and looks through the observation window. Darcy and Gus are giggling wildly as Octavia leads the group through a tumbling exercise. "Too bad," she says. "He seems like a pretty great kid."

"So does she," Bellamy says, and when she beams at him he doesn't even try to tell himself that he doesn't have a huge, fat crush on Darcy's mom.

* * *

They sit next to each other during the kids' jiu-jitsu lessons for the next three weeks, and Bellamy learns that she does art therapy at the same hospital where her mother is a surgeon, and she has a little house about a five minute drive from his, and Darcy just turned three.

He tells her about Gus, that his full name is Augustus, that he turns five in a couple months, and that until she died last year, his mother used to watch him while Bellamy taught at the high school. Now it's a mix of preschool, his sister, and babysitters that allow Bellamy to go to work.

"My dad's retired," Clarke says. "He usually watches Darcy when I'm working. If you ever need someone to take Gus, I'm sure he'd love to have him."

"Oh," Bellamy says. "Uh, I don't know if––"

"If you wanted to do a trial run, he could watch Gus and Darcy on Friday after tiny tots," she continues as if he hadn't spoken. "I already checked, and he said he would."

"Yeah?" he says slowly, so he doesn't stumble over his words like an overexcited fourteen-year-old. "What would, uh, we do?"

"I like frozen yogurt," she says hesitantly, and he can't keep himself from kissing her for one second longer.

When he pulls away, sooner than he wants to but later than he should have, given that they're surrounded by other parents in a crowded room, she looks a little dazed.

"Sounds perfect," he says, and this time, she's the one who kisses him.

* * *

When Bellamy and Clarke go to pick up the kids from the Griffins' house at the end of their fifth date, both of her parents open the door. Gus is clinging to Abby's hand, and Darcy is on Jake's shoulders, a gleeful look on her face as she clutches his hair for balance. Bellamy nearly has a heart attack when she lurches forward at the sight of them, squealing "Bell-me!"

He reaches up and grabs her before she topples off, and only when she's securely perched on his hip does his heart start to slow down again.

"Hi," she says, patting his cheek. "Hi Mama," she adds a moment later.

"Hi, baby," Clarke replies, her voice highly amused.

"Daddy! We made cookies!" Gus says, and leaves Abby to throw his arms around Clarke's knees. "We got in trouble 'cause we ate the dough."

"Hey, that was supposed to be our secret," Jake says, winking at Gus.

"Please don't teach our children to keep secrets from us," Clarke says dryly, one hand absently carding through Gus's dark curls, and Bellamy's stomach does a funny sort of flop at the ease with which she says _our. _

"Thanks for watching them," Bellamy says, and Abby beams at him.

"Anytime," she says, but her tone makes it clear it's more of an order than a suggestion.

* * *

They name their third child Ella.


	28. Hand in Hand

From anonymous on tumblr: "uhhh, this is a prompt i saw somewhere else. but could you do a modern AU for bellarke where bellamy is afraid to lose clarke in crowds because of how short she is so he holds her hand and eventually she starts to notice he is doing it even when it is just a few people. please."

The fic warped a little bit from the prompt, but I hope you still like it! This one got _really_ long, fair warning.

* * *

It starts with a concert.

Raven gets horrifically sick at the last minute. If their other friend weren't out of town meeting Lincoln's parents, she could go with Clarke instead—but Octavia _is _out of town, dealing with future in-laws.

"Clarke, you should still go," Raven says, and sneezes. "Just because I'm sick doesn't mean you should have to miss it."

"Oh, no," Bellamy says from the kitchen. Clarke had bugged him until he agreed to come over and make Raven some of his soup. When Clarke had roomed with Octavia freshman year of college, they'd both gotten sick with the flu; Bellamy had somehow fit in time between preparing for his master's thesis and TAing for a classics class to bring them a huge pot of savory vegetable soup.

It had been delicious, and by the time they managed to finish it all by the end of the week, they were both cured. Sick of soup, but cured.

"What?" Clarke asks as he emerges into the living room now, wooden spoon still in hand.

He points at her with it. "You're not going into the city alone at night," he says firmly, and Clarke crosses her arms.

"I'm pretty sure you're not the boss of me," she retorts. Bellamy narrows his eyes, but before he can respond, Raven groans.

"Give it a rest. God, give _me_ a rest." She's curled up on the couch in a nest of blankets and tissues, looking glassy-eyed and miserable.

Bellamy immediately moves to the couch and lays his free hand on her forehead. "You're still hot," he says, frowning.

Raven rolls her eyes and bats his hand away. "I'm always hot," she gripes.

"It's true," Clarke says solemnly, though she gets up and brings Raven a fresh glass of cranberry juice.

"Drink your juice," Bellamy orders.

As she sips, she grabs something from the clutter surrounding her on the couch and throws it at Bellamy's face.

"Nice, Reyes," he grumbles, but picks it up from where it fell on the ground.

"Stop complaining, Blake. You just got yourself a ticket to a concert that's been sold out for months," Raven says, and starts coughing.

"Oh god," he says with a tone of dread, and Clarke sticks her tongue out at him.

"I'll bet you twenty bucks you have a good time."

Bellamy's skeptical expressions says it all.

* * *

The crowds at the concert are enthusiastic—too enthusiastic, and Clarke is basically having to rely on the claustrophobic press of bodies on every side to keep her upright, because the movement of the crowd keeps making her lose her footing.

Then a strong hand grasps hers, and she collides hard against Bellamy's chest, which—well, it's not the worst thing to happen to Clarke. You know, in the history of human events. (It's actually kind of great.)

He looks down at her with a grim expression.

"Don't let go." He has to yell it in her ear three times before she understands what he's trying to tell her, and she nods.

She doesn't let go, not through "My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark" or "Thnks fr th Mmrs" or "Just One Yesterday," and yeah, their grasp is sweaty and hot, but every inch of her is sweaty and hot after jumping and dancing and screaming along with the lyrics. It just feels normal, instead of gross.

And, come on. Like she's going to give up the chance to hold his stupid hand. The idiot may be one of her best friends, but things like this are rare, and since she's kind of been in love with him since that stupid soup thing freshman year, she plans on taking everything she can get.

"Don't try to say you didn't have fun," Clarke says when they're slowly filing their way out of the outdoor amphitheater after the encore. "I _know _I saw a smile somewhere in there."

"Oh, you did," he says immediately. "Lots of smiling. Because I was laughing at you. The whole time."

Clarke just grins, too hyped still to bother pretending to be offended by his teasing. "You liked it," she sings. "Bellamy Blake loves Fall Out Boy, pass it on!"

He shrugs, and uses his grasp on her hand to lead her around a little huddle of whimpering concert-goers who aren't dealing too well with whatever they consumed at the concert. "I kind of liked one," he admits. "The one where they sang something about Rome in ruins? Though I'm pretty sure they said antivenom, not antivenin, which is _wrong_—"

She squeezes his hand and curls her other hand around his arm, leaning into him. "That's how it starts, my friend. That's how it starts."

By the time they reach the quiet parking garage where Bellamy left his car, an insane number of blocks away to avoid the concert traffic, she's fading fast.

"Come on, Clarke," he says, jabbing the button for the elevator with his free hand. "Almost there."

"I'm tired," she grumbles. She rubs her cheek against the damp sleeve of his t-shirt, then wrinkles her nose. "You smell."

"You're no garden of roses, either," he tells her, and drags her out of the elevator when it arrives at their floor.

"I don't even like roses. _You _don't even like roses. Why would I want to smell like a garden of roses?"

He tucks her into the car, and when he lets go, her hand is strangely cool all by itself.

"Well, luckily for you, you don't. Why don't you go to sleep? I'll wake you up when we get back to your apartment."

Clarke's already shaking her head as he turns the key in the ignition. "Oh, no. You're not getting out of it that easy, mister."

"Getting out of what?" Bellamy asks warily as he starts driving.

"The complete concert experience. After a concert is over, you have to listen to the band's entire discography on the drive home." He glances at her, clearly skeptical, and she shrugs. "I didn't make the rules."

"But you already made us listen to Fall Out Boy all the way _to _the concert," he argues. Clarke ignores him, and turns up the stereo. It's on _American Beauty/American Psycho_, and though Bellamy sighs when the next song starts, he's got a tiny smile on his face.

(She doesn't mean to, but she falls asleep somewhere between _Keep you like an oath _and _You were the song stuck in my head, every song that I've ever loved.)_

* * *

Raven is moaning and groaning and threatening to throw up _on _Clarke if she makes her eat one more bowl of Bellamy's soup, but when she finishes the last sip, her fever has broken, her cough is down to the occasional little tickle, and her sinuses have finally cleared up.

She glares at Clarke and Bellamy; Octavia's still gone, so it's just the three of them out for an early dinner. "Why didn't you wait to give me the damn soup? Two more days and I could have rescheduled my robotics talk."

"Stop being a baby," Clarke orders. "You've been preparing for that talk for _months."_

"That doesn't mean I _want _to do it," her roommate grumbles. "It means I hate public speaking and I hate you for telling me I should do this."

"You'll be fine," Clarke says, waving her hand airily. "Bellamy has to give lectures every day; if he can manage, you'll do fine."

"Thanks," Bellamy says flatly.

"He lectures to fifteen-year-olds, Clarke," Raven says. "Not PhDs. How am I supposed to lecture to PhDs?"

Reminding her that _she _has a PhD isn't going to help, so Clarke shrugs. "Pretend they're Wick."

Raven starts to argue, then pauses thoughtfully. "Huh."

* * *

"You're coming to her talk, right?" Clarke asks Bellamy later. It's Thursday night, meaning Market Fest is going on in the park, and after eating half her weight in Thai food, Clarke's desperate to walk around a little. Bellamy had agreed relatively easily to the plan, though it's just the two of them. Raven headed home to barricade herself in her room so she can practice her speech—even though she's had it memorized for five weeks.

"Yeah. O made me promise to go—help her 'represent Blakehood' or whatever."

As if he wouldn't just go to support Raven, Clarke thinks fondly.

Ahead of them are throngs of people, checking out the same old craft booths that set up every week as if there's going to be something new.

Bellamy's hand catches hers, and she glances at him.

"I don't want to lose you," he says. "You're like two feet tall. You could be gone in a blink of an eye in a crowd like this."

"Anyone ever tell you you're ridiculous?" But she just repositions their hands so their fingers interlace.

It ends up being a good idea, the hand-holding thing, one, because she likes it, and two, because the mediocre local band playing at the park's little amphitheater does a couple decent covers of classic songs, and Clarke's hold on Bellamy makes it easy to drag him into the crowd and dance with her.

He rolls his eyes, but grins as he uses their attached hands to twirl her around so the skirt of her dress spins around her knees.

When she's breathless and dizzy, she lets him lead her away from the dancing to one of the concession stands. They split a bottle of water as the sun starts to set, and Clarke lets herself lean into him a little.

"Octavia gets back tomorrow night," Bellamy says while they people-watch.

Clarks nods. "I'm supposed to pick them up from the airport at six. You want to come?"

"Sure. I get off around four."

"I could pick you up from work," Clarke offers. She knows he usually walks from his apartment to the high school only a few blocks away. "We could grab a bite to eat before going to get them."

He squeezes her hand. "Sounds good to me."

* * *

Clarke parks on the street and hops out of the car; there are still hordes of high schoolers milling around, and she has to deal with more than a couple blatant stares from gross teenage boys as she tries to get to Bellamy's classroom.

She finds him just as he's locking up, and pokes him in the shoulder blade.

"Hey. Teenagers are gross," she tells him, and he snorts, turning around.

"I am, unfortunately, all-too-aware of that fact," he tells her. "Given that I'm surrounded by them for a minimum of forty hours a week."

"That's your poor choice."

"Don't act superior just because you get to work from home," he grumbles. "I'm still convinced you went freelance just so you could avoid dealing with people on a daily basis."

Clarke shrugs. "True, that is a benefit. But mostly I was tired of my boss hitting on me."

Bellamy jerks to a stop, so Clarke is jerked to a stop, too, which makes her realize their hands are tangled together. It makes sense, she guesses, given the still-thick crowds of teenagers between them and her car. "_That's_ why you left Mount Weather Design?"

"Yeah," Clarke replies, a little puzzled by Bellamy's glare. "And I figured I was good enough at the graphic design thing to survive, so why not?"

"Because you shouldn't _have _to leave a secure job for self-employment because your boss is a sick asshole. You should have told me. I could have—I don't know, I could have gotten Lincoln and Miller. Had a _talk_ with him."

She pats his arm. "It's okay, Bellamy. It worked out well—like you said, I like working from home. My people, we stay indoors. We have keyboards. We have darkness. It's quiet."

Bellamy looks pained, which is at least an improvement from furious and/or homicidal. "Please don't quote Neil Gaiman at me."

Though she knows she's the absolute worst at winking without looking like an idiot, Clarke winks at him anyway. "Why, does it do something to you?"

"Yes," he says firmly. "It reminds me that you're a huge nerd, and I don't know why I'm friends with you."

"Hey! You're the one who recognized the quote; if anyone's a huge nerd, it's you!"

Before he can reply, a pubescent voice echoes through the air. "Go, Mr. Blake! _Gettin' it_!" A few whistles and catcalls follow.

"Sterling, I didn't know you were interested in another week of detention," Bellamy calls back pleasantly. He doesn't look around for the culprit, just smiles wryly down at Clarke.

"Sorry," he whispers. "But if I denied it, I'd lose all of my street cred."

"Well. Wouldn't want to deny you of your hard-earned street cred," Clarke says, bumping him with her hip.

They make their way through the throng of teenagers, snickers and whispers still surrounding them, but there isn't any more yelling or audible innuendo. The sidewalks are much emptier than the school grounds, and Clarke reluctantly lets go of Bellamy's hand to dig through her purse for her keys.

Dinner is nice; the airport isn't too far away, so they don't have to rush. Bellamy gets the falafel, Clarke gets the shawarma, and they steal off of each other's plates. Bellamy tries to protect his last bite from Clarke's questing fork, but she reaches over and pinches his arm, nabbing the falafel while he's busy muttering profanities under his breath. They get baklava for dessert, and she tries the same trick, but Bellamy just catches her hand before she can pinch, keeping it trapped in his while they finish.

It would be cheaper and make more sense to stay in the car in the waiting lot until Octavia texts them that they're outside with their baggage, ready to be picked up—but Octavia's always been a fan of the cheesy movie scenes where people are waiting for loved ones inside, so Clarke parks and they walk together into the airport.

Clarke's trying to get Bellamy to admit he's been listening to Fall Out Boy since the concert, and he's busy laughing and trying to deflect her increasingly insistent questioning when they hear Octavia.

"Clarke! Bellamy!"

They both glance up, and see Octavia and Lincoln weaving around other travelers. When the couple reaches them, Octavia's footsteps falter a little as she looks between them, brow raised with a smirk slowly spreading across her lips.

Bellamy doesn't seem to notice, already moving forward to embrace his little sister, but Clarke's suddenly aware of the fact he had to let go of her hand to do so.

She shouldn't be embarrassed, shouldn't be blushing—Octavia knows that she and Bellamy are best friends, and it's an airport. Airports are crowded. Busy. It was a reasonable precaution on his part.

It doesn't mean anything that would result in Octavia looking at them like _that._

She stuffs her unease down into the deep, dark corner of her brain where she'd tried to stuff her feelings for Bellamy Blake, and moves forward to hug Lincoln.

"Hi, Clarke," he says, and she beams.

"Hi! How was it?"

"Indra is scary," Octavia says, squeezing Clarke in a hug of her own. "But I'm pretty sure she loves me. Like, really deep down. But the love is there."

"Nyko would probably steal her away from me if he could," Lincoln says.

"He couldn't," Octavia says, looping her arm through her fiancé's and pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Your brother's cute and all, but I'm already set."

"You two hungry?" Lincoln asks as they make their way out of the airport. "We thought we'd take you out to dinner as a thank you for picking us up."

"Oh," Clarke says. "Actually, we already ate. We thought you'd be too tired from traveling to go out."

"Clarke stole my falafel," Bellamy adds, and Clarke flicks him in the arm.

"Tattletale."

"Okay," Octavia says slowly. "Well, we are kind of beat. We can just order in, right babe?"

Lincoln smiles down at Octavia. "Sounds good to me."

"Hey, we'll see you both at Raven's robotics talk, right?" Clarke asks.

"Yeah," Octavia replies, "I want to see her yell at old white men about how they're idiots."

"Well, you'll probably have to wait for the Q&amp;A portion, but it's highly likely," Bellamy replies.

They chat more about Lincoln and Octavia's trip during the drive to their little house, about how Lincoln's mom invited Octavia to spar with her and then proceeded to knock her on her ass about a thousand times, about how Lincoln's older brother was welcoming and kind whenever he was able to stop by between shifts at the hospital. Finally, after a brief goodbye, Clarke and Bellamy are alone in the car again.

"What are your plans for the rest of the night?" Clarke asks as she navigates them through town. "Grading?"

"Some," Bellamy acknowledges. "But I went easy on my students this week. No papers."

Clarke hums. She's in between projects right now, and Raven's undoubtedly still practicing her talk. When Clarke had left their apartment earlier that day, she had been stress-cooking while she muttered technical terms under her breath.

Then she pictures Bellamy sprawled across the couch she helped him pick out when he moved into his newer, nicer apartment, wearing those dorky hot reading glasses that always slide down his nose while he grades.

"Can I help?" she finds herself asking.

"Help?" Bellamy echoes. "Help _grade_?"

"Sure," Clarke says. "Why not?"

"Uh, because it's Friday night? Don't you have something, I don't know, more exciting to do?"

Clarke shrugs, parallel parking on the street in front of his apartment. "Not really."

She turns in her seat to see him looking at her.

"Wow. You're the worst twenty-five-year-old I've ever met," he tells her.

"Screw you," she says. "I'm awesome."

He laughs and grabs his bag from the backseat. "You can come up if you want. I have some vocab quizzes you could grade."

"Great." She pauses. "Excellent. Phenomenal. Tremendous—"

"I will destroy everything you love," he tells her, and she bites in a smile, halting her thesaurus impression.

Inside, they kick off their shoes, Bellamy pours them both glasses of wine, and once they curl up next to each other on the couch, the hours somehow pass in a slow, comfortable haze. Every once in a while, Clarke will read out a student's truly hilarious attempt to define a word they clearly don't recognize, and Bellamy will offer choice tidbits from the students' daily writing exercises.

Clarke falls asleep over the last quiz, and wakes up a couple hours later to Bellamy's soft snores as his heart beats under her cheek. Her hand has gone kind of numb with the way he's holding onto it, but she just adjusts until the feeling starts tingling back, and falls right back into her dreams.

* * *

Bellamy grumbles about his back the next morning, Clarke makes fun about him acting like an old man, he cooks them breakfast, and it's like any other morning she's woken up after falling asleep at his place.

Except for the part where they slept together on the couch instead of one of them taking the bed, and the part where Clarke woke up to him, uh, _pressed_ against her thigh.

Guys can't help that kind of thing, she had told herself, and had untangled herself from his arms before he woke up and became embarrassed. If her own cheeks were hot, her own body warm and yearning, well, that was her own damn problem.

Clarke leaves to get cleaned up while Bellamy showers, making plans to meet outside of the university building where Raven's talk is being held.

Raven's leaving their apartment, dressed in a pair of killer boots and a blazer Clarke might just die for, just as Clarke gets home. She swings her laptop bag onto her shoulder, props a crate full of robot parts on her hip as she raises an eyebrow.

"Late night, huh, Griffin?" she asks.

Clarke rolls her eyes. "I was at Bellamy's."

"And?"

Clarke stares. "And?"

Raven scoffs. "And you didn't screw that boy six ways to Sunday?"

"Raven!"

"What does he have to do?" Raven wonders. "Rip his clothes off, yell 'take me, I'm yours'?"

"He's—_we _are not like that," Clarke mutters.

"Oh, Clarke." Raven reaches out with the hand not holding the crate on her hip and pats Clarke's cheek. "Clarke, Clarke, Clarke."

"Hey!" Clarke says as Raven turns to leave. "What did that mean?"

"It means I have to go start setting up for my talk, and I have nowhere near the amount of time I need to tell you just how wrong you are," Raven calls, and then she's out of sight, the door to their building swinging shut behind her.

Clarke sticks her tongue out at the closed door, then goes to get ready.

* * *

Bellamy doesn't light up when he sees her approaching Wellman Hall, okay. He just smiles and straightens, eyes crinkling at the corners the way they do when he's happy, waving at her as she makes a face at the group of glacially-slow visiting professors getting their man-spread on ahead of her and taking up the entire path.

"Hey," he says, tugging on a piece of her hair when she finally reaches him. She swats his hand away, and his grin grows wider.

"Octavia and Lincoln?" she asks.

"Already inside. O wanted a front row seat for watching Raven make old white men cry."

Clarke snorts as they walk into the building. A huge group is milling around the lobby area, drinking punch out of styrofoam cups and eating grocery store cookies.

"You want something?" Bellamy asks doubtfully.

"Not from here. You?"

"Hell no."

"Lunch afterward?"

"God, yes."

They squeeze through the crowd to enter the lecture hall; it's the biggest on campus, capable of holding hundreds and hundreds of people. Raven's dragged them along to various talks hosted by the university before, but this is the first time she's the one up behind the podium.

Octavia and Lincoln are seated in the front row, far left, and Clarke sees the familiar dirty blonde head sitting directly in front of the podium. Raven may be grimacing at Wick, but Clarke knows her well enough to read the relief in her face.

"Come on," Bellamy says, tugging her along. He leads them to the closest seats available, which are halfway back in the lecture hall. He scoots in first, taking the inside seat and leaving Clarke with the aisle like she likes. It used to drive him nuts when they went to the movies, that she _had _to be on the aisle, and he'd complain about the way the screen looked funny when they weren't centered in the theater.

"Go sit somewhere else, then," she'd say; he would grumble and stay right there in the seat next to her.

Funny, though. Clarke realizes she can't remember the last time he complained when they went to the movies.

Raven doesn't make any old white men cry, but she does make more than one raise his voice until it cracks in anxious indignation. Whenever that happens, Clarke swears she can hear Octavia snickering all the way at the front.

But overall the talk, as much as Clarke understands of it as a graphic designer, goes well, and Raven's demonstration of one of her robots basically constructing itself is terrifyingly amazing in an _Age of Ultron _sort of way, and most of the old white men leave the lecture hall with expressions of disgruntled awe.

Clarke and Bellamy head to the lowest level of the lecture hall, meeting up with Octavia, Lincoln, and Wick, and they stay behind and wait for Raven to finish up with the last stragglers asking questions. When she finally bids farewell to the last one, she turns to them, a weary but ecstatic look on her face.

Then she snorts. "What is up with you two?"

Clarke and Bellamy exchange glances. "Uh, what?"

Raven reaches out and snags Wick's hand, raising their clasped hands in the air as if celebrating a wrestling win. "_That._"

Clarke glances down, and it's true; Bellamy's fingers are interlaced with hers yet again. Her conscious mind has apparently stopped registering when it happens, preferring to just let her subconsciously enjoy the limited contact.

How pathetic is she, that she gets so much contentment out of holding his hand.

She can't decide if she should pull away when he says, "I didn't want to lose her in the crowd."

She glances up at him, brow furrowing, but before she can speak, all of her friends burst out laughing.

"Bell," Octavia wheezes, leaning into Lincoln for support as she's apparently made weak with laughter. "There's, like, four other people here right now."

"Maybe he can see ghosts," Raven says. "Maybe there's like a hundred ghosts in here right now, waiting to take Clarke to the Other Side. He's always been kind of weird and into nerdy old stuff."

"No, before—" Bellamy growls and cuts himself off. "Fuck you." He pulls his hand out of Clarke's and leaves her staring after him as he takes the stairs two at a time to the exit at the top of the room.

"Baby," Octavia says fondly when she calms down.

Clarke's still staring at the exit. "I'm going to…" She motions vaguely at the door. "I've got to go. See you guys later!"

Her legs are much shorter than Bellamy's, so she can only take the stairs one at a time, which means there's plenty of time for Raven to wolf whistle at her while Wick whoops, Octavia cheers, and Lincoln laughs quietly.

She doesn't immediately see him when she gets outside, so she takes off at a run toward the parking lot, hoping to catch him before he reaches his car. She does, but just barely, and she hardly has time to register the surprise on his face when he sees her before she's hunching over and bracing her hands on her knees, breathing heavily.

"Why…are you…so _tall_?" Clarke pants. Seriously, the amount of ground he can cover in a couple minutes is truly impressive.

He's silent for a moment. "Why are you so short?"

"Hey." She breathes deeply, straightens. "I'm only a few inches below the average female height."

He eyes her suspiciously. "How do you define 'few'?"

She rolls her eyes. "Bellamy."

"Clarke."

"What was that?"

"What was what?" But he fidgets a little, turning his car keys over and over in his hands. She plucks them out of his hold, tucks them into the pocket of his jeans and hides a smile when he lets out a small noise. Then she grabs his hand in hers, pressing palm to palm and winding her fingers through his.

"This, Bellamy," she says.

He stares at their hands for a minute. "Nothing."

"Really?"

"…No."

She can't help the smile that curves her lips. "Good. Because it's not nothing to me."

His eyes search hers. "Clarke?"

"You realize you don't need to make up excuses to hold my hand," Clarke tells him. She tries for a nonchalant tone and mostly succeeds, which is kind of impressive in her opinion, given the frantic way her heart's been beating since she finally realized maybe all the hand-holding wasn't of the strictly-practical-and-friendly variety on his part.

Bellamy watches her warily. "Okay."

"Seriously," says Clarke. "You can just do it. No permission necessary. Not because there are crowds, or because I'm asleep and won't notice."

He's still looking at her as if he can't believe the words coming out of her mouth, so she gathers all of her courage, and then borrows some more.

"I'll demonstrate," she says, and then tugs hard enough on his hand that he stumbles into her.

"Jesus, Clarke, I nearly––" He's cut off with an _mmph _sound when she stands on her toes and plants her lips on his.

Her courage is only good for a few seconds of relishing how his lips feel against hers, surprise keeping his mouth still. Then she's backing away, cheeks on fire, eyes staring determinedly at his sternum rather than his face.

But his grip on her hand tightens before she can get far, and his other hand tilts her chin up until she can see the stunned look on his face.

"See? No permission needed," she says weakly.

"Clarke," he says softly. "Why'd you do that?"

She swallows. "Because I really wanted to," she says in a tiny voice. "And I might kind of love you a little."

"Okay," he says. "Just checking."

"Just _checking_," Clarke echoes, embarrassment rapidly overtaken by outrage. "Just _checking_? What the _hell _do you mean by––"

She shuts up because it's kind of pointless to try and talk when Bellamy's mouth is moving insistently over her own, and she wiggles her hand out of his so she can reach for his hair with both hands. He kisses her silly, and then kisses her some more, until Clarke's warm and limp all over.

"I love you, too," he tells her when he finally stops, and it takes her dazed brain a second to realize what he's said. When she does register his words, she pulls his hair hard and steps away as he starts cursing.

"What was that?" he demands, rubbing the tender part of his scalp.

She crosses her arms and glares. "What was _that_?" she retorts. "I tell you I love you, and you say _just checking_?"

"I said I love you, too!" Bellamy insists.

"Yeah, eventually," she says. "Seriously, how do you even function? You can't even hold a girl's hand without an excuse, or tell her you love her like a normal human being."

"I'm also in love with a woman who likes to critique my method of telling her I love her, so clearly I've got lots of problems," he snarks, and Clarke breaks, the grin taking over her face.

"Yeah, you do," she agrees. "You're lucky you've got someone willing to help you out with those."

"Yeah." This time, he steps into her nice and slow, cupping her face deliberately. "I am pretty lucky."

For the first time, they kiss while they're both expecting it, and it's the best one yet.


	29. Aurora Borealis

From blakesdoitbetter on tumblr: "Bellarke + tattoo artist Bellamy and florist Clarke"

* * *

**One**

He doesn't pay much attention when the empty storefront next to his shop is finally leased, other than to absently hope whatever goes in brings some new clients into his place. _Aurora's_ is doing fine, but it never hurts to get more business.

But a couple weeks later, coming back from his lunch break, Bellamy absolutely does notice that the next door shop's new sign has gone up, just to the right of his on the row of shops.

_Borealis Blooms_, it reads. He ducks into _Aurora's_, barks at Lincoln and Monroe that he's going to be a few minutes longer, and makes his way, fuming, next door.

"Are you kidding me?" he demands as he barges into the shop. It's got that new paint smell, the walls now a calm cream instead of dingy white, and there's furniture still wrapped in packing plastic clustered in the middle of floor.

There's no one in there, and for a second Bellamy feels embarrassed about yelling into an empty room, but then a woman pops up from behind the counter.

She's covered in paint, her hair is falling out of a sloppy topknot, and the strap of her tank top is sliding down her shoulder.

"Uh," Bellamy says, and that's how he meets the girl next door.

* * *

**Two**

"Can I help you?" Clarke asks. She's sweaty and hot and she's been crouching behind the counter organizing office supplies long enough that her thighs are trembling and burning in the _worst_ way.

The good kind of thigh trembling has, sadly, been all too absent from her life since she broke up with Lexa and moved from Arkadia to D.C.

She's sure she looks like a total mess, and resents the man standing in the middle of her half-ready shop on principle, because he looks crisp and cool in a dark v-neck as if the humidity doesn't affect him at all.

And damn it _all_ if the sight of the ink adorning his exposed skin doesn't get her even more hot and bothered.

"Yeah," he says, and stalks up to her until all that's separating them is the narrow expanse of the counter. "What the hell is up with your sign?"

She blinks at him. "My…sign?"

Is he trying to use some weird kind of angry pick-up line on her?

"Borealis Blooms," he grits out, and Clarke can't decide if she is or isn't disappointed that the answer to her question is apparently no.

"You're one of the guys from the tattoo parlor," she realizes, because _duh_.

"Yeah, and you're the girl who's ripping off my shop name," he snaps.

* * *

**Three**

"Excuse me?" the woman says, and Bellamy's not distracted by her lips when she blows a piece of hair out of her face.

"Aurora borealis?"

"Oh." She does look a little chagrined, pulling up her tank top strap and fidgeting with it. "I meant to talk to the owner before it went up. I got distracted."

"Well, talk," he says.

"Oh, you're—? I'm—" Her cheeks were already flushed when he came in, but now even her nose turns pink as she blushes. "I didn't think you'd mind, I guess. I just—I'd wanted to open this place for a long time, and when I was looking for space and saw your shop's name, it seemed kind of perfect."

He stares at her.

"Besides," she says, lifting her chin defiantly. "It's kind of cute, don't you think?"

"I own a tattoo parlor," Bellamy says flatly. "I don't need a fucking cutesy his-and-hers shopfront thing going on."

She narrows her eyes. "Well, too bad. I've already paid for the sign. And you're the one who named your tattoo parlor after a _fairy-tale_," she adds. "If anyone has a cutesy shop name it's you."

"It was my mother's name," he finds himself blurting out, and—okay, it's not like it's a secret, anyone who knows him knows he named the shop after her, not the princess. But usually he just lets strangers and customers think it's because of the fairy-tale, what with the getting pricked with needles or spindles or whatever.

She's quiet for a long moment, and he puts on a scowl when he starts to itch under her pensive gaze.

* * *

**Four**

"What?" he asks defensively.

"Nothing," Clarke replies. "Just—my dad. He was a scientist at UCLA. Studied northern lights."

She can practically see the fight melt out of him when he registers the way she used past tense too, and so she doesn't take (much) offense when he says, "I'm not going to convince you to change your shop name, am I?"

She smiles. "Nope. But you'll see. It'll be good for both our businesses."

He sighs heavily and sticks his hand out. "Bellamy Blake. Tattoo artist."

His hand is warm and dry and big around hers, and Clarke despairs that she's probably got gross clammy hands from the stupid humidity. "Clarke Griffin. Floral artist."

"Got any tattoos, Clarke?"

She snorts. "No." Not yet, at least. "Got any favorite flowers?"

Bellamy shrugs. "The pretty ones."

"All flowers are pretty," she says, and he grins for the first time. She nearly goes weak-kneed, but she's probably just dehydrated—the heat and humidity and all that.

She's definitely not imagining that grin on his face while she explores the expanse of skin underneath his shirt, hunting for more of his tattoos.

"I don't think so. I've got one guy? He studies flowers, comes in a few times a year to add to his collection. And let me tell you, there are some fucking freaky looking orchids," Bellamy replies, and she laughs. "I hope you're not into those."

* * *

**Five**

"I'm hoping to stick with the more standard stuff in my shop," Clarke says, eyes still sparkling with laughter. "Though I'm always open to trying something new."

Bellamy grins at her; how can he not? Sure, her shop name was a somewhat irritating surprise, but he'll learn to live with it. But Clarke is all pink, flushed skin and mussed blonde hair and there's a streak of paint on her cheek, and _fuck_, he does _not_ have time for a crush on the girl next door.

He clears his throat and starts to back away. "Anyway. Sorry for barging in, I guess. Good luck getting everything set up."

"Oh," Clarke says, following him with her eyes as he awkwardly scoots out of her shop. "Well, thank you. Maybe I'll see you around?"

"Probably," he acknowledges. "Neighbors, you know."

She gives him a puzzled smile as he lingers in the doorway, watching her. "Okay…good. Nice to meet you, Bellamy."

"You too, Clarke," he gets out, and then he forces himself out the door. He snaps a quick picture of the storefront with his phone and slips back into his own shop.

Monroe's working on a client, but Lincoln's at his drafting table.

"Where have you been?" he asks. Lincoln's working on a design for one of their oldest clients, something to complete her second sleeve while looking both unique and as if it belongs with the rest of her pieces.

"Met the new shop owner," Bellamy replies as he opens his laptop and pulls up _Aurora's_ Facebook page. "Yelled at her about the sign."

"I like it," Lincoln says. "So does Octavia."

"Wait, how does Octavia already have an opinion on it? It just went up."

Lincoln shrugs calmly. "She brought me lunch."

Bellamy is the littlest bit offended that his baby sister came by the shop and didn't say hello to him, but then again, he'd probably have been forced to eat some of the food she brought if she had seen him.

He's more than happy to let Octavia's boyfriend shoulder that responsibility.

"What was it this time?"

"A sandwich from the deli next to the dojo." Bellamy knows he's not imagining the note of relief in Lincoln's voice.

"Lucky man," he replies before clicking around a bit more.

Bellamy goes back and forth for a good five minutes about it before he gives in and posts a new status with the photo of Clarke's storefront to their Facebook page. Then he forces himself to log out and put all thoughts of the hot blonde florist out of his mind as he prepares for his next appointment.

_Aurora's Tattoos welcomes Borealis Blooms to the neighborhood._

* * *

He's the only one left in the shop when Clarke slips in the door later that night, just after closing. Bellamy only has a second to see that her face is scrubbed clean of paint, and that her stupid tank top is slipping off her shoulder _still_, and that she's got a smile on her face that's kind of nervous and kind of beautiful and maybe just a little bit wicked.

_Calm the fuck down, Blake,_ he thinks. Just because the florist is pretty and kind of clever with the stupid shop name thing doesn't mean he should be thinking about throwing her across his drafting table and making out or anything like that, and—

"So, I've been thinking about getting a tattoo," she says, and _goddamnit_, he's doomed.


	30. Cooking Class

From deargodtomanyfandoms on tumblr: "teacher/student AU"

Because I've worked as a teaching assistant and instructor, I'm terrified of academic high school/college teacher/student relationships. So I went a different route and combined this with the awful au: "I teach a cooking class and you're the worst student I've ever had."

* * *

Bellamy can tell the blonde is trying. Really, she's got these little frowny lines wrinkling up her forehead, and her bottom lip is swollen and red from how much she's been nibbling on it. She goes between squinting at the print-out he gave all the students and staring at the mess in front of her.

Seriously, she looks like Hermione Granger in that one scene in the _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince _movie_, _the one where her hair's about twice as big as her head and she's stirring her cauldron frantically as she tries to make that potion. And yes, he's aware that if his sister knew he made that comparison, she would make fun of him for the rest of his life, but she already makes fun of him constantly. It's not like anything would change.

But the blonde is acting like it's a dangerous magical potion she's dealing with, not a pretty basic Filipino recipe. At one point, he's pretty sure he catches her turning the print-out upside down, as if that will somehow help her.

Another time, when he's worked his way through the more competent students and is closer to her, he sees her huff and dig through the purse on the seat next to her until she pulls out a pair of big black-rimmed glasses that she shoves onto her face.

It seems to help her stop squinting at the recipe so much, but then steam from the stove just starts fogging up the lenses.

For all her effort, she is, without a doubt, the worst student he's ever had.

"How are you doing over here?" he asks when he finally is able to get to her work station, and tries not to let his skepticism bleed into his voice.

"I hate my entire life," she replies, and stabs viciously into her pan with her wooden spoon. "What am I even doing? Why am I here? Who am I, really?"

He stares at her. Then, slowly, he begins to laugh.

"It's not funny," she grumps, though he can see the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and she pokes a piece of chicken with her spoon. "I'm having a crisis here."

A quick glance around the classroom proves that everyone else is doing just fine with the chicken adobo.

"Well—what's your name?" he asks.

"Clarke," she grumbles.

"Bellamy. Well, Clarke, for starters, you've got your burner ridiculously hot." He turns the knob, peering at the flame until it's at a more suitable height.

"How was I supposed to know that?" she says.

He smiles. "It's on the print-out, and I said it at the beginning of the class."

"_No_, I mean—what does that even _mean_? Low, medium, high, medium-well, rare—it's just _fire. _How the hell am I supposed to know what medium-well fire looks like?"

"Uh, well, there's no such thing as medium-well fire? _Heat_," he corrects himself. "There are medium-well steaks or whatever, but cooking heat is on a spectrum between low and high. Think of it like a compass, how a direction like north-east is between north and east. Medium-high, for example, is between medium and high heat."

She gives him a look, and tosses laurel leaves into the pan before he can stop her. "You sound like a teacher. Are you a teacher?"

Bellamy fishes a pair of tongs out of the drawer next to her station and plucks the leaves back out of the pan. "Well, considering I'm teaching the cooking class you're currently failing, yeah, I think it's safe to say I'm a teacher."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "That's not what I meant, I'm not _failing, _and why are you taking those out?"

"Because they're not supposed to go in until the chicken is beginning to get tender," he says, willing himself to remain patient. "And I teach middle school social studies." Usually he doesn't mind the cooking classes his sister guilted him into teaching at the community center when she started working for the city's Parks and Recreation department—actually, he tends to look forward to it after being with teens all week long. Twelve- and thirteen-year-olds can only follow directions so well for so long.

But Clarke is giving them a run for their money right now, apparently entirely unable to read a simple recipe or comprehend the short overview he'd given at the beginning of the class.

"They're tender!" she protests. "I made sure." As if to prove her point, she jabs at a piece of the raw chicken with her spoon.

"Oh my god," he says. "How have you not starved to death?"

"Hey!"

"This is literally the easiest dish I ever teach. Do you survive entirely on takeout? Or the kindness of strangers?" he wonders.

"I'm not paying you to make fun of my cooking skills," Clarke says, frowning.

"First of all, you have no cooking skills. I don't know what you have but skill is not it. And second, you're not paying me at all? I volunteer. All ten of the dollars you paid for this class go back into the community center, so."

Her shoulders slump, and she sighs.

"Look," Bellamy says. "Just—don't touch it, alright? I've got to make the rounds, but I'll come back and try to help you some more."

"Fine," she grumbles, exchanging her spoon for a laurel leaf she starts half-heartedly shredding into little pieces.

Bellamy turns down the heat to almost nothing so the chicken doesn't burn or maybe spontaneously combust while he's gone.

It doesn't take long; most people are doing exactly as the print-out says and doing just fine. There are a couple regulars he talks to for a little longer; Bellamy encourages Mrs. Kane to add a little more garlic, tells Jasper to lay off the pepper unless he wants his chicken adobo to be inedible, makes Maya blush when he teases her about Jasper being too distracted by her presence to pay attention to the recipe.

By the time he gets back to Clarke, most of the class has reached the simmering period.

"Great, everybody," he calls, and all eyes turn to him. "At this point, you'd typically start your rice if you haven't already; when you try this at home, make sure to give yourself enough time. Now, while your chicken adobo finishes simmering, go ahead and check out the covered dishes the front. There's plenty of the finished product for you all to try as you wait."

"Alright, I'm back," Bellamy says while the other students file up to the front, chatter filling the room. He turns up the heat under the pan.

"Hi."

"Now that you're chicken's ready—see the way it looks, instead of still looking kind of raw?—you're going to add your other ingredients," Bellamy says.

Clarke bites her lip, glances between him and the ingredients grouped on her workspace. She reaches hesitantly for the vinegar, but checks his face before she actually touches it.

Goddamnit, she's cute. Not his typical type, but hey, he's got eyes. And they can see clearly that his worst cooking student in the history of…ever is pretty much adorable.

She's still waiting for his approval, Bellamy realizes, so he nods encouragingly. "Yup. That, and all the other stuff except for the seven-up."

It all goes well, Bellamy talking her through each ingredient like his mother had talked him through them when he was young, like Aurora had told him his father taught her before he died. It's pretty charming, actually, to see the way her face lights up when the smell from the pan starts getting better, and the cooking food starts looking somewhat recognizable.

And then, of course, when she tries to measure out a cup of soy sauce, the little stopper that keeps too much from pouring out all at once pops out of place and falls into the pan, along with about three times more soy sauce than the dish calls for.

She yelps as the liquid from the pan splashes up, splattering her hands and arms.

Bellamy immediately turns off the stove, takes the now-mostly-empty soy sauce bottle from her hands and sets it on the counter, and grabs her shoulders, turning her toward him.

"Are you alright?" he asks, looking her up and down. She had pushed the sleeves of her striped top up, but there's soy sauce soaking into them where they bunch around her elbows. Her forearms and hands are flecked with the stuff, and Bellamy carefully takes hold of her fingers, turning her hands this way and that to check for burns.

"That was _not_ my fault," Clarke declares, apparently unhurt. "I was kicking ass. Adobo ass. The stupid soy sauce ruined everything."

"You definitely don't have the best luck," Bellamy agrees, satisfied that she wasn't burned. He snags a towel, runs it under the faucet, and then starts cleaning her arms.

Until she clears her throat pointedly, he doesn't realize he's cleaning her hands like he cleaned Octavia's face and limbs when she was a toddler and had just experienced cake for the first time.

"I think I'm good," she says, but when he jerks his head up to meet her gaze, she's smiling, her cheeks and nose tinted the faintest pink. His stomach does a weird trembly thing that he decides to ignore as he grins back.

"Okay. Oh, just one more," he notices, and wipes at a spot just below her elbow. It doesn't come off, so he wipes a few more times until Clarke starts to laugh, and he realizes he's been trying to wipe off a dark mole, like the one above her lip.

Not that he's been noticing her lips, or anything.

"Oh," he says, and lets go of her. "That's…that's permanent."

"Yup." Her smiles dims when she looks at her pan, the dark brown mess of soy-covered chicken slowly cooling on the stove. "Damn it."

"Tell you what, I'll sneak you into the next class for free," Bellamy finds himself offering. "I'm teaching sinigang."

On second thought, that sounds like a terrible idea; chicken adobo is child's play compared to the flavor balancing act that sinigang requires. But he's already offered, and it wouldn't be so bad to see her again.

"No, that's okay," she sighs. "I wanted to learn chicken adobo."

She looks so defeated. "Why?" he asks, glancing over to check on the rest of class. They're still munching away happily on the chicken adobo he'd prepared earlier, and he can see Maya grinning at Jasper as he gestures broadly with his plastic fork. "Any particular reason?"

"I…" Clarke shoves a hand through her hair, still wild and curly from the heat of the stove. "It was my dad's favorite. We used to go to Roline's, on Washington Street? Before it closed."

"I remember Roline's," Bellamy says. "Their chicken adobo sucked."

That startles a laugh out of Clarke even as she flicks him in the chest. "Hey, I have fond memories of that food!"

He looks at her skeptically.

"Okay, it wasn't the _best_, but my dad loved it. His birthday is this weekend, and I wanted to make it for my mom and me," Clarke explains, glancing down at the counter and tracing her fingers over the print-out. The piece of paper is splattered with soy sauce too, and is barely legible now. "I tried googling recipes, but when I tried to make it on my own I just set things on fire."

"Seriously," says Bellamy, wanting to coax another smile out of her. "How do you survive?"

It works, kind of; she's smiling, but she's wrinkling her nose at him in offense. "Hey, it's only stupid complex recipes that trip me up, okay? I can manage jarred pasta sauce and noodles. _And_ I'll have you know I'm a whiz with the oven. Baked meatballs? No problem. Authentic Italian-style pizza? I've got you covered. Anything baked, I'm your girl."

"You're my girl, huh? I'll believe it when I see it," he says. "Or taste it."

Clarke scowls and begins emptying her pan into the garbage can. "This sucks," she sighs. "I guess I'll just try it at home again."

"For the sake of humankind, just don't. Don't try to make this. You were created to do a lot of things probably, but making this dish is not one of them."

Clarke huffs and sets her pan in the sink. "That's rude."

"That's the truth," Bellamy counters. "Listen, I know this is important to you, but I can't in good conscience set you free into the cooking world. If you try to make this for your mom, you will probably burn down your kitchen and/or die."

She crosses her arms, sets her mouth stubbornly. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

Bellamy sighs. "I mean. I guess I could make it for you?"

Clarke eyes him.

"This isn't some creepy attempt to find out where you live," he promises. Really, he should just shut up. God knows he has more than enough to do in his everyday life; he doesn't need to add 'become Clarke's personal chef' to his to-do list. "I can make it and meet you somewhere, hand it off."

"Why?"

"Uh," he says. "So you don't have to tell a virtual stranger where you live?"

"No, I mean, why are you offering to cook for me?" Clarke asks, pushing her glasses back up her nose. "Do you offer food services to all of your cooking class students?"

"Nah," he replies, "only the pretty ones."

She stares at him.

"Oh god. Pretty _awful _ones," he says, and then wants to crawl into a hole because how is that better than awkwardly hitting on her? "I—I'm starting over with this. No, I don't offer food services, but I wouldn't mind helping you out."

"So you don't think I'm pretty?"

He stares at her helplessly.

She stares back for a couple seconds, then dissolves into giggles. "Your _face_, oh my god. You'd think I'd asked you where babies come from or something."

"I don't want to answer that either," Bellamy says immediately.

"It's okay, Bellamy," she says, patting his arm. "I already know all about the stork and the cabbage leaf."

"Do you want my help or not?" He really should hope she says no, because he's got a huge pile of grading at home, and Marcus guilted him into agreeing to teach summer school so he needs to come up with three and a half weeks worth of lesson plans, and Miller asked if they could hang out that weekend, probably so they can play video games while he whines about his big, fat crush on Monty. Bellamy should hope she says no, but instead he finds himself hoping that she says—

"Yes. Please."

"Oh. Okay." He gets a little distracted by the inky lines of her lashes behind her glasses when she lowers her eyes and smiles a little. "Do you—"

"Bellamy!" Maya calls. "Is…is it supposed to be doing this?"

Bellamy looks over to where Maya's standing; she returned to her station at some point, and her pan is letting off an alarming amount of steam.

"Shit," he says.

"You'd better take care of that," Clarke says. He hazards a look at her, and she raises an eyebrow and makes a shooing motion. "Go!"

"Okay," he says, then takes off for Maya's station, calling along the way, "Alright everybody, final stages! Back to your posts!"

He leads everybody through the final addition and a much shorter simmering period, then congratulates them all on completing their dish. All except Clarke, who pulled a stool over to her station and is sitting on it, swinging her legs as she alternates between squinting at her soy-sauced print-out and tapping at her phone.

She's still waiting when everybody has packaged up their finished food and cleaned their stations, and he helps Mrs. Kane to the door before returning to Clarke.

"You're still here."

"Did you already change your mind?" she asks, giving him a crooked smile. "It's okay if you did."

"No, I'd like you," he says; at her stare, he scrambles to fix his fumbling mistake. "I'd like to _help_ you. Fuck."

He can tell she's biting her cheek, probably to keep from laughing at him. He sighs.

"Thank you," she says in a composed voice, then scoots over so she's right next to him, leaning against him as she holds out her phone for them to look at together. "I tried to recreate the grocery list from the print-out. Does it look right?"

Bellamy clears his throat, tries to ignore the fact that he can feel her warmth through his shirt. God, is that creepy? Is he a creep? He forces himself to scan the list. "It looks good," he confirms. "But I was just going to pick everything up on my way home, so…"

She draws away, looking outraged; he pretends he doesn't miss the feel of her leaning on him, and again wonders if he's a creep. "Oh, no. You're not going to do me this huge favor _and _pay for the ingredients," she says, poking him.

He looks down at where her finger had jabbed him, bemused.

"I'm paying," she announces. "In fact, I should be paying you extra to actually cook it."

Now Bellamy shakes his head. "Absolutely not. I'm not your employee, I offered to do it."

Clarke wrinkles her nose. "Fine."

"Fine."

"_Fine." _

"Are you done?"

She considers. "Yeah. Saturday okay for you?"

Bellamy thinks about summer school, only a week and a half away. "Yeah, Saturday's fine."

* * *

Clarke follows him to the market half a mile away, and he manages to get through shopping with a minimum of creepy thoughts about how, even with her shirt covered in soy sauce, she still smells good when she puts a hand on his shoulder for balance so she can stand on her tiptoes to reach a bag of cake flour.

Or about how he weirdly finds it cute that she _tries _to reach the cake flour, and fails, and her face is an oddly adorable mix of grumpy and grateful when he easily grabs it off the shelf and hands it to her.

Or about how, after he's loaded the ingredients he needs to make her chicken adobo into his car, and she's loaded the insane number of groceries she bought for herself into her own, she takes his phone, enters her number, and hands it back to him with a bright smile and a kiss on the cheek, and it's awesome.

* * *

The next day is Friday, and his students are predictably rowdy at the prospect of the weekend and of next week being the last week of the school year, and he's sufficiently distracted from Clarke as he tries to keep them from standing on desks while stuffing some last minute knowledge in their brains. He even manages to get most of his grading done that night, and gets started on summer school planning the next morning until he has to shower and get started on the food.

At this point in his life, he could make the dish in his sleep, but he finds himself concentrating intensely, making sure every measurement is perfect, and each flavor is balanced. When it's almost done, he texts Clarke.

_almost ready. where do you want me to meet you?_

After only a few seconds, he can see her start typing a response. _can u pls pls pls bring it to 44 A Street? i'm running a little late_ _:O_

_that's fine, _he texts back. _were you able to make the rice?_

_the rice is why i'm running late_, she replies, and he snorts. _but i found my rice cooker now! rice is cooking, mom will be here soon_

_ how many pots of rice did you ruin before you found your rice cooker to make it for you?_

_i resent that implication, _she texts.

Then, _two, _and a little emoji with its tongue sticking out.

_you SURE you've got the rice handled? _he asks.

_shut up. _

* * *

The actual delivery goes quickly; he plugs Clarke's address into the GPS in his phone and pulls up in front of a nice little house that makes him wonder what she does for a living.

She answers the door in a pretty dress that swishes around her knees, with an apron decorated with lemons tied around her waist; there's a dash of flour on one cheek.

"Hi!" she says breathlessly, then her eyes zero in on the tupperware in his hands. "Oh my god, I love you. You're amazing."

"Hi," he says back, grinning. Something starts beeping back in the house, and her eyes widen.

"Come in, come in," she says, gesturing him through door. Once she closes it, she takes off at a run for what he assumes is the kitchen.

Bellamy follows hesitantly, taking in the woven rug just inside the door, the paintings decorating her walls. He pauses and squints at the bottom of one, a landscape, and realizes the signature says it's Clarke's painting. All of them are.

And they're _good_.

He finds the kitchen and discovers that Clarke's set the table in the attached dining nook already; it's pristine and pretty, and the kitchen is a disaster. She's just finished laying a towel over something she pulled out of the oven, and there's flour and who knows what else all over the place.

"Wow," he says.

"Um, would you mind helping me out?" Clarke asks sheepishly. "I want to get this cleaned up before my mom arrives, and I still haven't made the drinks."

What's one more favor? he thinks, and that's how he finds himself reheating the chicken adobo on her stove, then plating it along with rice as Clarke dances around him with a damp cloth, wiping down counters and cupboards.

Bellamy's just set the pan, still mostly full, back on the stove when he hears, "Clarke?"

Clarke yelps and whirls around; he follows her gaze to see an older woman with brown hair standing in the entrance to the hallway. "Mom, hi!" Clarke says.

"Hi, honey," she replies, eyeing Bellamy as he remains standing awkwardly by the stove. "Who's this?"

Before Clarke can reply, he offers his hand. "Bellamy Blake. I'm just the chef."

"Abby Griffin," she replies, shaking his hand firmly. "The chef?"

"Chicken adobo," Clarke says softly, and Abby looks at the table, her face softening in surprise.

"Clarke," she says, and Bellamy's appalled to see Clarke's mother tearing up.

"Hey, none of that," Clarke commands, squeezing Abby in a quick hug. "It's supposed to be a nice surprise."

"It is," Abby says. "It's a lovely surprise, Clarke." Then she turns to him. "And you cooked?"

He nods. "It was no big deal."

"It was a very big deal," Clarke counters. "I tried to practice making it and I nearly burnt the kitchen down. I really owe you."

Bellamy rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. "It's alright. Anyway, I'm going to take off," he says, gesturing at the set table. "Have a wonderful evening, ladies."

He's not bothered that he wasn't asked to stay; even if he had been asked, he would have declined and let Clarke and her mother visit by themselves. Clarke had said it was her father's favorite meal, and his birthday, and Bellamy's familiar enough with talking around a family member's absence to realize that her father must have passed away.

"Thank you," Abby says, a small smile on her face as she looks over the food. "This is lovely."

"Clarke," Bellamy says, nodding goodbye, and he slips into the hallway.

"Wait!" Clarke says, following, and he feels her hand on his arm. When he turns to look at her, her lips are on his before he can ask what she needs. She pauses and then pulls away in a manner that tells him it was an accident, she was aiming for his cheek in that way she does. But she just smiles at him, and he can't stop himself from brushing the flour off her cheek carefully.

"Thank you," Clarke says. "So much, Bellamy."

"It was my pleasure," he tells her, and leaves before he kisses her again.

* * *

He's just getting out of the shower and starting to get ready for bed the next night—okay, it's only eight at night, but he's a school teacher, okay, he has to get up at the ass crack of dawn—when his doorbell rings. He pauses in the middle of brushing his teeth, then shrugs and keeps brushing; then there's a loud series of knocks.

Bellamy grumbles as he trudges to the door, clad in a pair of his oldest sweats with a towel around his neck so his hair will stop dripping down his back.

Clarke's standing on his welcome mat, dressed in another flowy dress that ripples in the breezy evening air.

He yanks the toothbrush out of his mouth and puts it behind his back like that will make him look like less of an idiot.

"Clarke! What are you doing here?" he says, words garbled with foam.

She looks down at the tupperware in her hands, then back at him. "You labeled your tupperware? 'B. Blake, 101 Ark Street, Apartment 47.' I thought it was a very unsubtle hint. That, or you're secretly a suburban mom."

"Ah…" he says, and Clarke's cheeks glows pink.

"You're a suburban mom, aren't you?"

"I, uh." He holds up a finger, darts into his kitchen so he can spit into his sink and ditch the toothbrush. He's back in seconds. "Um. If you don't label your dishes, you never get them back from staff potlucks," he says lamely, feeling the heat in his own cheeks.

"Oh. Then I'm going to say that I obviously knew that, and I'm just here to return your dishes and give you thank you cupcakes."

"Well, I'd never say no to thank you cupcakes," Bellamy says, and holds the door open for her to come in.

It's only a little weird, seeing Clarke in his apartment, looking around curiously. She finds the kitchen (it's not hard, given it's immediately to the right of his front door) and instantly makes herself at home, hopping up on the counter and swinging her legs so her feet hit his lower cabinets with gentle thuds.

She sets the tupperware in her lap and tries to pry the lid off, but it's being stubborn.

"Here, let me do it," Bellamy offers. "I'm used to its temper tantrums."

He steps forward to take it from her, and suddenly realizes he's basically standing in the cradle of her legs. He clears his throat, hurriedly looking down at the container, and pulls off the lid.

Clarke's doing that thing again where she bites her cheek so she doesn't laugh at him. He would be offended except he'd probably be laughing at himself right now, too.

Then he looks at the cupcakes. "Oh my god, is that homemade cream cheese frosting?"

"I like how you can recognize it on sight," Clarke muses. "Did I choose well?"

"And they're chocolate?" he guesses, though it's hard to tell through the cupcake liners decorated with jack-o-lanterns.

"Yes, from scratch, and ignore the pumpkins. I realized too late that they were all I had left."

Bellamy can't actually remember the last time he had completely homemade chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. Probably his twenty-first birthday, right before his mother got sick.

"Are you going to stare at them or eat them?" Clarke wants to know, and he remembers just who made these delicious-looking pastries.

She rolls her eyes at the wary look at the crosses his face. "Trust me. This is not going to be like the chicken adobo."

"Okay," Bellamy says slowly, and Clarke takes back the tupperware, holding it on her lap so he can pick a cupcake and peel off the liner.

He eyes her as he takes a small bite, and she watches expectantly. The flavors sit on his tongue.

He stares at her.

She smirks at him.

"Holy shit," he says. "That's good."

"I know."

"Like, _really _good," he repeats.

"I told you—baked goods, I'm your girl."

"My girl, huh?" he repeats. "I mean, if everything you bake is this good, I might have to take you up on that." He doesn't really mean it, until he says it and realizes that he kind of does. Clarke is smart, and cute, and looks adorable when she's frazzled and her hair's big and she's wearing her glasses, and he wouldn't mind, you know. Keeping her. If she wanted to keep him. Her habit of kissing him on the cheek is a major selling point, too.

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I _know _that everything I bake is this good. I guess you'll just have to stick around and find out for yourself."

"I'll check my calendar," he says, licking a dollop of frosting of the cupcake and grinning at her. "See if I can pencil you in—"

She sets the tupperware on the counter next to her, grabs the towel he still has around his neck, and uses it to pull him down into a kiss.

This one's definitely meant for his lips, and she tastes like sugar.

* * *

The next time he sees Abby Griffin, he's infinitely more nervous.

Clarke is taking way too much amusement from his panic. "Why are you freaking out?" she asks him when her mother's in the bathroom. "She's already met you."

"Yeah, well, the last time we met I didn't know what her daughter looked like naked."


	31. Virtue

From only-judy-can-judge-moi on tumblr: "living in a society where their love is taboo au"

Or, a Regency Era AU.

* * *

Bellamy never wanted to be this kind of man. He's decent, honorable, as respectable a man as his fortune—or lack thereof—allows him to be.

When his parents had passed, he'd assumed guardianship of his younger sister and done his best to provide her with a happy, if not wealthy, upbringing and a stable home while he took work as a clerk.

When Lincoln Woods had proposed to Octavia, Bellamy had made sure that she was truly fond of Mr. Woods—he couldn't bear the thought of his baby sister trapped in a loveless marriage, though Mr. Woods didn't care that Octavia had no dowry to speak of and he had offered to settle an incredible amount of money on her.

And once his sister was happily married, he'd had nothing to hold him to the ugly little flat in London where he lived alone, so he had saved his money and sold all of his keepsakes but the tiny, poorly-executed portrait of his mother. With nearly all the money to his name, he'd purchased a commission in the army, with the hope that he'd rise in the ranks and become something more than a lowly clerk.

And he _has _made something more of himself. He's a Captain now, with years at war behind him. Octavia tells him she's proud, and her oldest son is named Blake, and all of that reminds him of the good, decent man he's supposed to be.

Instead, he's the vile sort of man who meets with ladies in the dark of night, when they should be tucked away in their bedrooms, virtue safe from him.

"Stop that," Miss Clarke Griffin of Derbyshire demands, pulling her lips away from his neck. She must have felt him tense. "You were doing so well, too."

He realizes his hands are creasing her dress irreparably with the painfully-tight grasp he has on her hips through the cloth, and he tries to pull away. Instead, his hands move up to her waist, then around to her back as he pulls her closer.

He can feel the lines of her stays through her dress and the thin fabric of his shirt—she's already shoved his redcoat off his shoulders, and pulled the tails of his shirt from his breeches.

"Better," Clarke says.

"We shouldn't do this, Miss Griffin," he says, voice strangled, even as he aches to never let her go. This is the third night they've met like this, and he hasn't been able to make himself let go yet.

"I don't answer to that name," she says idly, and presses a dry kiss to the underside of his jaw.

"_Clarke_," he rasps out, and she moans when he grinds involuntarily against her.

He stills with a massive force of will.

"Clarke," he says, quietly. They're in the pretty little wilderness beyond her house's garden, but servants are light sleepers, and the slightest disturbance could lead to Clarke's reputation being ruined. By him.

"This feels wrong," he says lowly. It feels _right_, holding her in his arms and smelling the sweet scent of the rosewater clinging to her skin, feeling the soft press of her breasts against his chest and her full hips beneath his fingers as he imagines what it would be like to _be _with her. But it feels wrong, too, knowing that the only way he's able to be with her is to sneak around in the dark of night, because he's an orphaned man with nothing but his army title to his name, and she's the only child of the most wealthy man in Derbyshire. "If anyone were to catch you out here with me, your virtue would be ruined."

He's puzzled when she smiles nervously. "Not an issue."

He blinks. "You've—you've been compromised?" Bellamy's torn between the desire to know who did it, so he can challenge them to a duel and watch them bleed out, and the fear that Clarke was hurt, forced. Neither situation would change his feelings for her, but he wonders for a second if that's why she wants him—if she's been compromised, and a hasty relationship with him would be the best way to cover up any…consequences.

Bellamy feels sick.

Then she says, "Not in the traditional sense."

"…What?"

He sees her square her shoulders. "In my opinion, my virtue has been thoroughly, ah, taken care of. But I haven't—it wasn't—" Clarke stumbles over the words, and Bellamy just grows more and more confused.

"It wasn't what, Clarke?"

"It wasn't a man," she blurts out, and a blush creeps up her neck to her cheeks as she waits for him to respond.

"Oh." Eventually he manages to find his words again. "Um, who—?"

"My companion," she replies hesitantly.

"Miss Reyes?" he says, picturing the lovely dark-haired woman. She's a few of years older than Clarke's twenty-two.

Clarke nods, gaze defiant. He's not sure how to respond, or how she's expecting him to respond, but mostly he's just relieved that she's not meeting with him, kissing him, because she's with child and desperate.

He's not sure what it says about his character that even if that _had _been the case, he would have done whatever she asked of him.

But instead, she's telling him she's been intimate with another woman.

"You two still seem…friends," he says carefully. They often walk to town, arm-in-arm, laughing brightly with their heads close together. It had actually been the first thing that Bellamy noticed about Clarke, well before he officially met her at the ball the Griffins invited all the militia to—that she laughed so freely, instead of in careful, sweet giggles like most ladies of her station.

She searches his face, for what he's not sure. Bellamy wonders if she's worried she shocked him, but, well, he'd caught Octavia kissing Harper Reist more than once when she was younger.

But then she seems to relax. "We are still friends. She's my _best_ friend," Clarke says, voice fond. "And when Lieutenant Wick asked to court her, I could tell she liked him, and that he made her happy, so I told her she should say yes."

"So you're not still…" he trails off, and this time she looks annoyed.

"You think I'd be here like this, with _you_, if I were in love with Raven?" she demands as she pulls away and starts futilely trying to fix the damage he'd done to her gown.

"What? No!" he says, reaching for her. She evades his grasp, looking at him suspiciously. "Please, Clarke. I…I hold you in the—the very _highest_ regard."

"Even though I no longer have my virtue, and I think virtue is a stupid concept in general?"

A reluctant smile tugs at his lips. "Even then. Especially then."

"Good," she says in satisfaction, and draws him down into a long, wet kiss that leaves him dizzy and wanting.

Bellamy can feel the long line of tiny buttons down the back of her dress, knows that he could just grasp the fabric and _tear—_

Instead, he tears his mouth from hers. "Clarke," he pants. "Really. You should return to your room."

"I don't want to."

"Your family_—_" he tries, yet again.

"You speak of regard. But do you love me?" she asks. He sputters wildly, because he didn't think that families barely below true nobility bothered themselves with _love, _at least as anything more important than a slightly unfashionable peculiarity that entices the poor into matrimony.

He knows he loves her, but he can't imagine why she would care to know.

"Do you _love _me, Bellamy?" she asks, carelessly dropping his given name from her pink, swollen lips.

"Yes," he says helplessly. "Yes, I do, I love you. But what does that matter?" he asks as she lets out a little satisfied _hmmph _and returns to marking his skin with her mouth.

"It's all that matters," she says, and he has to muffle a groan when she threads her fingers through his hair and tugs gently. "I love you, too."

"I'm just an officer," he says feebly, even as his heart soars at her words. "I have no fortune, no home, no connections. I can't offer you anything like you deserve."

"I can't speak about what I deserve," she says, "but I can speak about what I want. And Bellamy? _All _I want is you."

"You know your parents wouldn't approve."

She shrugs irritably. "Maybe not. But they'd come around to it, you know they would. My father just wants to see me happy, and he likes you. And my mother." Clarke pauses, toying with the collar of his shirt. "Well, I've never much cared for her opinion."

That much is true, at least. In the weeks that followed their introduction, he'd learned that Miss Clarke Griffin was a cultured beauty, speaking half a dozen languages, reading voraciously, painting and sketching with the skill of a master.

He also learned, in quick, stolen moments on the grounds of her estate or in whispered words whenever he encountered her in the village, that she prefers Greek and Latin to French and Italian because of their usefulness in science, and that she prefers to practice drawing bodily anatomy over sketching flowers, and that her proclivities cause her mother to despair while her father turns a blind eye to it all.

"We're going to do it right," she assures him. "Tomorrow, we'll speak to my parents."

"And if they say no?" he counters, because of course they will. In what world would it be acceptable for a woman like Clarke to marry a man like him?

She grins wickedly, and that's the only warning he has before she palms him through his breeches, making him choke.

"Then I'll tell them I _must _marry you," she replies, hand moving against him in wonderful and terrible ways. "It's a matter of compromised virtue."

"I thought you considered your virtue already taken care of," he manages to get out.

"Who says I was talking about mine?"

* * *

Mrs. Griffin looks like she's tasted a lemon, Mr. Griffin looks as though he's convinced this is all a dream, and Miss Reyes looks positively delighted as Clarke primly details to her parents exactly how thoroughly she compromised Captain Bellamy Blake, and how the only decent thing to do would be to marry.

(They're wed within a fortnight.)

* * *

Note: Though it wasn't my typical AU, I hope you still enjoyed. Please know that the Aurora Borealis chapter has now been expanded into its own fic over at AO3! If you're interested in reading more about tattoo artist Bellamy and florist Clarke, check out the link in my profile.


	32. Pretense

From lydiahstilinski on tumblr: "my ex just invited me to their wedding and I need you to be my date so it doesn't look like I've spent the last few years failing to get over them."

* * *

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Double please?"

"_No_."

"Please-that's-held-to-an-unreasonable-standard-of-beauty?"

"What? No." A pause. "Though I appreciate your take on _pretty please_."

Clarke groans. "Bellamy!"

"Clarke!" he mimics—poorly, in her opinion. "Just don't go."

"That would be even worse than going alone!" Clarke exclaims. "Because then Lexa would think I'm too in love with her to watch her get married to someone else, which is wrong, so I need to go and you need to go with me."

Bellamy makes a disgusted noise, staring determinedly at his book.

"I'm going to be the world's biggest loser," she insists. "I'll be forever known as the pathetic ex who's doomed to never find love because she's pining over a taken woman. Do you want that? To be best friends with someone who's a known pathetic ex?"

Bellamy shoves his reading glasses up his nose, licks his finger and deliberately turns the page of his book. "How do you think logic works, exactly? I already know you're pathetic, and you're my best friend anyway," he points out.

Clarke pauses. "Aww." She pats his chest. "I think you're pathetic too."

* * *

He snorts, and she continues. "Really, though. I don't want to do this alone, Bellamy."

He ignores her, but she can see that little muscle ticking anxiously in his jaw. Clarke wiggles closer on the couch, tucks herself into his side so close that he's forced to abandon his book with a huff. He has to wrench his arm from where she pinned it between them, and drapes it around her back.

"Please?" she asks, one more time, but she already knows she has him.

He's kind of a sucker for her.

Bellamy lets out a huge, dramatic, gusty sigh. "_Fine_. But I'm not doing this sober; you're designated driver."

"I'll pay for our cab," she counters, because one, there's going to be an open bar, and two, there's no way in hell she's suffering through her ex's wedding without alcohol. "You have to wear a suit."

"_Fuck._ You have to wear a dress," he replies. "That one with the weird back."

Clarke rests her cheek on his arm, fighting a grin. He'd tried to hide how much he liked her in that dress when she'd worn it to Octavia's graduation party, but though he tried to mask his fascination by poking her periodically through the gaps in the straps spanning across her back, she'd caught him zoning out, eyes on her essentially bare skin, more than once.

"Sure. I like that one."

"Lexa hates me," he grumbles, and Clarke smiles.

"I'm counting on it."

* * *

Clarke takes great pleasure in filling out the RSVP with her name and Bellamy Blake as her plus one.

"How is this supposed to work?" Bellamy wants to know. "She already knows me. She's not going to buy it as a legitimate date."

She shakes her head. "She was always jealous of you. She'll buy it."

"Wait, what?"

Clarke concentrates on adding a little flourish to the 'e' on the end of _Blake_, and doesn't look at him. "She'd get weird about us hanging out. She thought we were secretly in love or something." She tacks a little flower design onto the 'y' of _Bellamy_, considers it, then nods, and finally risks a glance up at him. He's frowning slightly, watching her.

They just look at each other, quiet, for a long moment. Finally, Bellamy says, "Huh." And that's it.

* * *

Clarke and Bellamy's friendship has never been brotherly/sisterly, which is what a lot of people want to assume of best friends of opposite sexes.

Clarke likes to make fun of Bellamy's poorly veiled interest in her breasts when she wears low-cut tops. Bellamy likes to play Scrabble shirtless because the smooth expanse of skin short-circuits Clarke's brain, and he knows it. Octavia tags every picture of them she posts to Instagram with the hashtag "#married," even when it's just a picture of them yelling at the baseball game on TV, or eating cereal or something.

It's a lot for any of Clarke or Bellamy's significant others to believe that they're just best friends.

Even though it's the truth, sometimes it's hard for Clarke to believe, too.

* * *

Raven lets herself into Clarke's apartment the next week as if she owns the place; Clarke's not alarmed, because Raven tends to act like she owns everywhere.

She hoists herself onto the counter next to where Clarke's squinting at the snickerdoodle recipe in _The Joy of Cooking_. She'd figured Bellamy deserved something for agreeing to be her date; even for best friends, that's above and beyond the call of duty.

"Why are these his favorite?" she grumbles. "Why not chocolate chip? It's easy to get good chocolate chip cookies from a store. But these taste gross unless they're homemade."

Raven ignores that. "So. You're taking Blake on a date."

Clarke throws an irritated glance at her friend. "It's to make sure I don't look like an idiot at Lexa's wedding."

Raven waves that away. "You could have invited me. She doesn't know me. I would have made out with you, even. Made it convincing."

"We can still make out," Clarke offers, dumping some vanilla extract into the mixing bowl; Raven rolls her eyes.

"I've had enough of being the other woman, thanks."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Clarke frowns. "And, technically, I was the other woman."

"It means you want Lexa to think you two are really together because _you _want to really be together."

"That's—you're—" She sputters until Raven smirks.

* * *

Clarke brings Bellamy the cookies; she realizes that Raven might be right when she wants to lick the cinnamon and sugar right off his mouth when he bites into one.

* * *

The day of the wedding, Clarke gets ready and drives herself over to Bellamy's. She figures she can leave her car there, and when the cab drops them back off at his house later, she can just crash until morning.

She pulls into her spot in the driveway next to his crappy Toyota, puts the car in park, flips down the visor so she can check herself in the mirror one last time.

As promised, she's wearing the purple strappy-backed dress; it might be a little risqué for a wedding, but Clarke's not about to worry that she's dressed too provocatively when she's pretty sure she was only invited out of spite. Serves Lexa right if the slightly-too-short skirt and slightly-too-low neckline reminds her of what she walked away from.

She checks her makeup, swipes on another coat of lipgloss, tugs a few more strands of hair out of her coronet braid so it looks messier, the way Bellamy tries to pretend he doesn't prefer. The earrings she's wearing are the ones he gave her when she graduated from college, a vintage set she'd eyed at the consignment shop a dozen times but never said she'd wanted.

He knew her well enough to know what she wanted, even if she never said it aloud.

Octavia had told her later that he'd worked overtime for months to afford them. Clarke had noticed he was busier than normal, but he'd told her he was just covering for Connor, who was out on paternity leave.

Nodding firmly at her reflection, Clarke grabs her bag and locks the car.

"You ready?" she calls, letting herself into the house. She takes a second to enjoy the sensation of the delicate skirt swirling around her thighs, the cool air of the house tickling her back.

"Fuck," she hears, and she turns to see him standing in hallway staring at her. A white button-down is tucked into crisp grey slacks; the matching blazer and a striped tie are clutched, forgotten, in his hands.

Something in her belly clutches at the sight of him, mouthwateringly handsome in his dress clothes.

"Hey," she says. Clarke has to clear her throat. "Um, you look good."

"Uh. Yeah." She raises an eyebrow, and he hastily adds, "Same."

Clarke sets her clutch on the entryway table and approaches him. Bellamy watches her, almost warily.

She gives him a wry smile and takes the tie out of his hand. "Leave it. Or else I'll be too underdressed next to you."

"Thank god," he mutters, and then she can hear the intake of breathe when she reaches for his collar.

"There," she says softly, undoing the very top buttons. She did it to make his outfit appear more relaxed, but it incidentally also has the effect of making her pulse speed up. "Put the jacket on."

He rolls his eyes, muttering a "Yes, princess," but does as she says. Clarke reaches up, fixes his collar, smooths the lapel of his jacket over his chest.

"You're not a total loss," she tells him, and he snorts.

"You're of mediocre appeal," he replies, and she grins before tugging him in front of the mirror that hangs over the entryway table.

She curls her arm through his, purses her lips at their reflection. She reaches up with her free hand and messes up his hair a little bit more, then beams. "There. We look like we belong together."

She can't tell if it's her imagination, or if he really does sound kind of funny when he says, "Yeah. We do."

* * *

Lexa is beautiful, and Costia is lovely, and Clarke feels the tiniest bit of grudging happiness for them, but mostly she's ridiculously grateful that Bellamy's by her side.

When Lexa and Costia are walking down separate aisles, designed to meet in the middle at the altar, Bellamy leans over to whisper in her ear. His lips brush against the shell of her ear, his breath hot and damp. "So do you want to make fun of their outfits, or…?"

Clarke tries to keep the laughter quiet, but Lexa's terrifying aunt glares daggers at them. Then Clarke sighs as the ceremony begins. "No. They look beautiful."

Bellamy reaches over, intertwines their fingers. "They're alright. But I prefer blondes."

She tips her face up to look at him, probably make fun of him because _really_, Bellamy? He's always been prone to bad puns and dad jokes, but that was pretty damn cheesy.

But her breath catches in her throat at the way he's looking at her, and when his eyes meet hers, he just smiles softly, the crooked smile pulling one corner of his mouth higher than the other.

* * *

Clarke holds their place in line to greet the newlyweds while Bellamy hits the open bar to get their drinks, but it moves way faster than she anticipated. All too soon, there are only two people separating her from Lexa and Costia, and Bellamy's nowhere to be found.

One person between them.

And…now it's Clarke's turn to face her happily-married ex, and she's all on her own.

She pastes on a smile, tries not to lose it when she sees the slightest uptick of Lexa's eyebrow when she sees it's Clarke.

"Hi Lexa," Clarke says. "Costia, it's so nice to meet you."

Costia's smile is polite, perfunctory. She clearly has no idea who Clarke is.

"I'm pleased you could attend," Lexa says. She looks around. "I was under the impression you were attending with Bellamy."

"Oh!" Costia exclaims, "You must be Clarke!"

Taken aback, Clarke just nods. A tiny uncharitable part of her is delighted that it was Bellamy's name that made the connection for Costia, because that means Lexa's been talking about him, and why would she be talking about Bellamy unless she's irritated by the fact he's Clarke's plus one?

Her own smile is more genuine this time. "Yeah, that's me. Bellamy's around somewhere, getting drinks before the lines at the bar are too crazy."

Costia laughs, and Clarke likes her more and more. "I'm jealous," she says conspiratorially. "I haven't had anything more than half a glass of champagne in the bridal suite."

"Well, partying is what the honeymoon's for, right?" Clarke says, and even Lexa smiles at that.

A disembodied hand thrusts itself in front of her face just then, holding a jack and coke with a little umbrella. She blinks, takes it, and Bellamy winds his now-free arm around her waist and presses a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth that has her stomach jumping.

He turns to the brides. "Congratulations," he tells them warmly. "It was a nice ceremony."

He chats them up a few minutes more, and it's kind of amazing how Clarke can forget about the charming smooth-talker that's hidden underneath the countless layers of Greek mythology references and hair-trigger responses to mentions of the Library of Alexandria and forgetting to buy actual food when they go to Target because he's busy yelling about the historical inaccuracies in the movies for sale.

She prefers the overly passionate nerd, but she's not complaining about seeing him like this too.

"Well, I think we've been monopolizing the happy couple long enough, babe," Clarke says, letting her free hand toy with the curls at the nape of his neck. She's pretty sure she's not imagining his shiver. "Should we go find our seats?"

"Sounds good. Lexa, Costia. Best wishes," he says, nodding, and they escape.

* * *

"Babe?" he asks when they're sitting at a round table just to the side of the dance floor.

"Hmm?" Clarke replies absently, taking in the lovely, rustic decor in the centerpieces and the lights draped through the rafters of the pretty barn.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for Clarke to realize he's not calling her babe to get her attention, but to remind her that she called him babe first.

She takes a big gulp of her drink, then directs a winning smile at him. "Yeah. That happened."

"To keep up the date pretense?"

"Uh." Clarke examines her glass. They really went heavy on the ice, she thinks critically. There's hardly any alcohol in her glass. "Sure."

"Clarke."

"I don't know," she mumbles, and sucks the last bit of liquid out of her cocktail, shaking the ice around in the glass.

The sound of the ice clinking around stops abruptly when a warm hand makes itself known on her thigh, and she stills.

"Is that just to keep up the date pretense?" she asks shakily.

He pauses, makes a show of thinking about it. "Sure," he says, drawing out the word in an imitation of her.

"Bellamy!"

His thumb strokes over her skin, nudging her skirt higher and higher up on her thigh.

"Oh my god," she says, "I'm going to fucking murder you."

Lexa's scary aunt pauses as she passes by and gives Clarke the dirtiest look possible.

"Sorry," Clarke says, wincing. Then she grabs Bellamy's hand, though she keeps it in place on her thigh rather than shoving it away.

"What are you doing?"

Bellamy laughs. "I don't have a clue. Clarke, why am I here?"

She stares at him, lips parted. "What?"

"Why am I here?" he repeats. "I mean, I get that you didn't want to come alone to your ex's wedding. That would suck. But why _me_?"

"Why not you?"

He huffs. "God, Clarke. You could have brought any one of our friends. You could have found someone you actually wanted to date. You probably could have asked a stranger on the street to be your date and they would have been like, 'hell yeah I'll go.'"

She lets out a long slow breath. "I think that's probably an exaggeration. But who said I didn't take someone I wanted to actually take on a date?"

He looks a little surprised, and she rolls her eyes though her skin is covered in goosebumps originating from the spot where he's still touching her, and he's way too cute with his dumb suit and dumb hair and dumb stupid perfect face. "I asked you to come because I didn't want to come alone, and because I wanted to go with _you._"

"Oh," he says faintly.

"I want to do everything with you," she adds softly, and he looks at her very intently, like he's trying to figure out if she means it in the 'you're my best friend' way or the 'you're my best friend and I'm in love with you and I'm a big chicken about actually saying it out loud because I don't want to ruin this if you don't feel the same way' way.

But Bellamy knows her well enough to know what she wants, even if she never says it aloud.

He pulls his hand off her thigh, and Clarke's stomach feels like she's just gone over the drop on a roller coaster, because how can him stopping touching her be a good sign?

But then he cups her face in his palms, searching her expression earnestly, and Clarke swallows hard and waits, keeping as still as she can.

"God, you're an idiot," he says finally, crackling a smile, and her mouth drops open in indignation just in time for his lips to land on hers.

He tastes like the whiskey they've been drinking, and he moves one hand from her face to slide around her back, mumbling curses when his fingers tangle in the thin straps criss-crossing her back. Clarke abandons her glass to wrap her hands in his jacket collar and tug him nearer, letting out a none-too-quiet moan when he licks into her mouth, and he uses the hand on her back to haul her closer until she's basically in his lap.

It's not like they haven't been close before, but _this _kind of close, with mouths and tongues and _hands—_it's pretty much the best thing that's happened to Clarke, ever.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves!" a voice says sharply, and Clarke wrenches her mouth away from Bellamy's. He looks dazed, but it quickly morphs into a horrified expression that matches how she feels when she realizes Lexa's scary aunt has yet again caught Clarke doing something inappropriate.

"This is a _family _event," Lexa's aunt hisses. "Control yourselves!"

"Sorry," they say in unison, and then stay frozen in place until she finally leaves them alone.

Then Clarke looks at Bellamy, and Bellamy looks at Clarke, and they laugh until their stomachs hurt.

* * *

Bellamy takes her dancing.

Well, he requests the Macarena from the DJ when dancing starts after dinner, and drags her out on the dance floor, spinning her wildly and forcing her to do the hand motions until she can hardly breathe, she's laughing so hard.

And then he keeps her smiling, pulling her into him with that hand on her bare back, until her breasts brush his chest and he leads her in a slow sway to the music.

And he kisses her softly, sweetly, until the only thought in her head is him.

Well, and that they're both idiots for waiting so long.

But mostly she's just thinking of him.

"So," he says, when she's lost count of how many songs they've danced to. "You went to your ex's wedding. You had a date, an awesome one if I say so myself, so you definitely couldn't be considered pathetic."

Clarke hums, lets herself play with the curls at the nape of his neck again. "Seems like tonight's been a success."

"Yeah?"

She smiles. "Yeah. Let's leave."

His eyebrows rise. "Now?"

"Now." She doesn't remember the last time she's felt this shy around him; they've been friends for so long, it's hard to imagine she ever felt this way, like mutant butterflies are swarming through her whole body.

But the grin that stretches across his face sends all but the best of the butterflies flying away.

"Yeah. Let's go."

* * *

They never ended up drinking the way they'd planned, but Clarke doesn't mind having to wait out near the street for their cab to arrive. She forgot to bring a wrap, so Bellamy wraps her up instead, all while teasing her mercilessly about being amazed she even remembered to put on underwear.

Clarke laughs as their cab pulls up, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Bellamy."

"What?"

"Does this dress look like it can hide a bra?"

"…Oh."

As he pulls open the door for her, an expression of fierce concentration on his face, Clarke hears her name being called.

Bellamy looks behind Clarke. "I'll wait for you in the car?"

"Thanks," Clarke says, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, and turns to wait for Lexa to catch up to her.

"You're leaving already?" Lexa asks, just the slightest bit out of breath.

Clarke tucks some of the hair that's come out of her braid behind her ear. "Yeah. We're ready to head home."

Lexa nods. "I understand." She fidgets a little with the beading on her exquisitely tailored top, and Clarke gets the feeling Lexa has no more idea how to navigate the situation than she does.

"Thank you for inviting me," Clarke tells Lexa, and the knowledge that Bellamy's waiting in the cab for her, and they're going home _together_, lets her realize she means it. "I enjoyed meeting your new wife."

The other woman nods. "I was glad you accepted the invitation. I wasn't sure if you would."

"Even with Bellamy as my plus one?" Clarke asks dryly, and the faintest hint of a blush paints Lexa's cheeks.

"He's not my favorite," Lexa admits. "But I wasn't surprised that you brought him."

Clarke glances back at the waiting cab. "Yeah. We're kind of a package deal."

"I hope you're happy," Lexa blurts out. "Really," Lexa continues softly when Clarke turns back to her. "I know it's not what it felt like, when we broke up. But I just wanted us both to be happy, and I had the feeling that someone else made you a lot happier than I ever could."

It seems unkind to tell Lexa on her wedding day that she was right, that Bellamy makes Clarke feel the happiest she's ever been.

"I know," she says instead. "I hope you're happy, too. We both deserve it. Congratulations, Lexa. I hope you and Costia have a long, happy life together."

Lexa has that small, luminous smile on her face. "Thank you."

"Anyway, we've got to get going," Clarke says, and Lexa nods.

"Of course."

But as she's climbing into the cab, Lexa calls out one more thing.

"And Clarke? I hope you and Bellamy have a long, happy life together, too."

* * *

They do.


	33. The Pretty One

From apanoplyofsong on tumblr: "Oh man but "23. i'm really drunk, please help me get safely out of the way so i don't ruin my friends wedding" for Bellarke would be a gift because: either of them drunk, I mean GOD BLESS"

* * *

"Oh my god, I'm _so _sorry!" The blonde is looking at him earnestly and speaking way too loudly as she pets the growing damp spot on his chest where she spilled her glass of champagne. The fact that she's not even using a napkin, and is essentially just groping his chest, tells him she is drunk.

Like, really drunk.

He doesn't recognize her, so he figures she must be there for Lincoln. He feels like he'd remember if any of Octavia's friends looked like she does.

Taking hold of her wrist, he halts her progressively more intimate strokes. "I'm not sure that's helping."

Her face flushes even darker than the glow the alcohol has already given it. "I'm _sorry_," she whispers. Well, he thinks it's supposed to be a whisper, but it's pretty much a yell. Way over where they're dancing by the DJ booth, he can see Miller and Monty lift their heads and glance over at Bellamy and the drunk girl.

"I believe you," he tells her, raising an eyebrow.

She looks confused, then a look of dawning horror comes over her face.

"Oh my god. Listen—_listen_," she says, and when she wobbles, she reaches out and plants her palms firmly on Bellamy's chest. He looks down, bemused. "I'm really—_really_ drunk."

"I noticed."

She hiccups, and why the _hell _is she so cute? She's a drunken nuisance at his little sister's wedding. He should not find her cute. That is the opposite of the emotion he should feel as an outraged older brother.

"I'm Clarke Griffin," she tells him then, as if that'll clear things up.

Well, it does, a little, because he remembers Lincoln talking about his friend Clarke from college. Bellamy had just always thought Clarke was a dude.

"Okay." When she wobbles again, he sighs and moves so he can hold her up by the waist. "Well, Clarke, I'm Bellamy. Why don't we get you some water, maybe some food?"

"I didn't mean to get drunk," she says, and her voice is a little teary and please god do not let the blonde start sobbing on him. "Don't tell Lincoln that I got drunk. Please?"

"I'm pretty sure he'd be able to figure it out just by looking at you. How's gravity treating you, princess?"

She glares at him, but the effect is lessened by the fact that he is the only thing preventing her from collapsing into a puddle on the ground at this point.

"Lincoln said you were _nice_," she says, voice accusing. "You're the _worst _at nice. You get, like, an F minus in nice."

He can't help it; charmed, he cracks a smile.

Then, before he can realize what's happening, she yelps and her legs fold underneath her as she drops like a rock to sit on her ass.

"What the hell?" he blurts out; she's like sand, slipping through his firm–he thought–grasp. "Are you alright?"

She shakes her head, scoots a little closer to his legs as if trying to hide. "No. Listen. _Listen. _You need to help me."

Help her into a cab, maybe, except he's kind of worried about her actually making it home by herself in this state.

"What do you need help with, Clarke?" he asks instead, voice purposefully soothing.

"Lincoln's behind you," Clarke says, doing a slightly better job at whispering this time. Her voice is only a normal volume instead of a yell. "I don't want him to see me drunk. He's nicer than you and he'll worry."

"Is this a normal thing for you?" Bellamy wonders. If it is, he would worry too.

But she shakes her head. "Only when I forget to eat dinner. And maybe lunch. And I think I was out of protein bars for breakfast."

"Shit," he says, and her eyes widen in panic.

"Please!" she insists. "I don't want to interrupt the, um." He can see her thinking hard, and failing. "The togetherness party. He's too pretty."

"Um."

"You're pretty too," she adds, her voice heartfelt. She sort of hugs his leg, pats his knee. "So pretty. Please?"

"Oh my god," Bellamy says, and pulls her to her feet.

"You're pretty," she repeats, now pleasantly complimentary, and somehow he understands that's how she means to say, "Thank you."

Somehow, he gets her through the crowd. It's actually a minor miracle, given that his sister's the bride and until Clarke spilled her drink on him, he'd been bombarded by well-wishers complimenting him on how well Octavia's turned out or whatever.

Apparently, the key to being left alone is to be practically carrying a hot blonde. He imagines that they can't actually look like they're up to anything family-friendly when Wick gives him a smirk and thumbs up when he sees Bellamy and Clarke slipping into the bed and breakfast.

He dodges a few more guests, reaches the bottom of the stairs. Clarke's getting harder to steer, her body drooping more and more.

"Do you have a room?" he asks. He's not hopeful.

She makes a noncommittal type of noises and stares at him. Well, at his hair, and her hands come up to twist curls around her fingers.

"Pretty," she says softly.

"I know," he says, his stomach trembling in a funny way at the gentle touch. "We've established that I am, in fact, very pretty. Do you have a room?"

"Uh…"

Bellamy sighs. "Okay."

All of the wedding party had rooms for two nights, the night before the wedding and tonight. Bellamy had barely slept the night before, too anxious over whether or not the caterers had the right directions to the wedding venue, over whether the flowers were too cold in the industrial refrigerators in the bed and breakfast's kitchen, over whether he could handle his baby sister getting married when it seemed like he taught her how to ride a bike just the day before.

He'd been looking forward to tonight, collapsing into bed after everyone had either gone to their own rooms or headed home, and sleeping like the dead.

And instead he has an armful of drunk blonde and a night on the room's tiny couch to look forward to.

"Come on," Bellamy says, hitching her up when she starts to slide toward the ground. "Clarke, come on. Up the stairs." She seems more interested in the way her skirt is floating as she continues to lose the battle against gravity. "Clarke! Lincoln's coming!"

She gasps, digs her hands into his arms. "You're a lying liar," she accuses, but she starts dragging herself toward the steps. "He's still out there, with the, um, bride."

He rolls his eyes. "You mean Octavia?"

"Yeah, with Octagon," she agrees.

Bellamy snorts a laugh, then lets out a tired sigh.

* * *

In a few short minutes, he's gotten her to down two glasses of water and a couple of smushed granola bars from his suitcase, and now she's settled in his bed.

"I've got to go back down to the reception," he tells her as he puts his travel bottle of aspirin and a bottle of water on the nightstand. "Don't freak out on me if you wake up when I come in later, okay? I promise I'll be sleeping on the couch." Or the floor, he considers grimly; trying to sleep on that tiny loveseat might prove even less comfortable than the area rug.

"Bellamy?"

"Yeah?" he asks, hand on the doorknob. God, is she going to be sick?

"Thank you," she says, her voice small and sleepy. "You don't _really _get an F minus in niceness. You're actually the nicest."

"What's _the nicest_ translate to in a letter grade?" he teases gently. "Did my GPA go up?"

She blows a lazy raspberry, just a quiet buzzing of her lips. "You made the honor roll," she slurs, and by the time he closes the door silently behind him, she's well on her way to asleep.

* * *

Bellamy forces himself to mingle for another hour and a half; when his new brother-in-law notes, concerned, that he hasn't seen Clarke since just after the ceremony, Bellamy waves it away. "She had a long day. Exhausted. Went up to bed already."

Octavia narrows her eyes speculatively. "I didn't know she was staying overnight."

Bellamy coughs a little. "Yeah, it seemed like best solution. Uh, I'll be right back." He leaves them, hides in a corner to text his sister where Lincoln won't see him.

_clarke didn't eat, got drunk at reception, didn't want to ruin things or make lincoln worry. i put her in my room to sleep it off._

She replies almost instantly, and he remembers that she'd had a special pocket sewn into her wedding dress just for her phone and a tube of lipstick.

_ur such a dad. i'll tell lincoln later, u 2 should meet us for bfast tomorrow._

Bellamy makes a face at the idea of acting like a dad to Clarke, then decides he's finally spent long enough at the reception. He circles back to the newlyweds, shakes Lincoln's hand, holds Octavia in a tight hug until she sighs dramatically and pats his back gingerly.

In his room, Clarke is sleeping, letting out gentle little snores that remind him of puppies and kittens when they sleep.

He likes the noise, actually. It's constant reassurance that she's still alive, which is good, because it would be bad if Lincoln's friend died on his watch and also because Bellamy kind of likes her—or, at least he likes drunk Clarke, and he feels like that means there's about a 78% chance he'll probably _really _like sober Clarke and be overly invested in her caloric intake. He knows himself.

And then he falls asleep to the sound of her breathing, curled up on the rug with a throw pillow from the loveseat and an extra blanket he finds in the closet.

* * *

She's still asleep, limbs akimbo when he gets up. Bellamy considers her sleeping form for a minute. It seems rude to just _wake _her, but breakfast was served half an hour ago and checkout is in another hour. So he writes a note on the sticky stationery pad that the bed and breakfast stocks, sticks it on the water bottle, then balances the water bottle on her forehead and goes downstairs.

She comes into the dining room in fifteen minutes, her hair pulled back in hasty-looking braid, her heels in her hands.

Clarke squints at him when she sees him. "You."

"Me," he agrees.

"Did you put a _water bottle _on my _forehead_?" she demands.

"Did you drink it? You need to hydrate. And it had a note," he explains, and she snorts, slumping into the seat across from him.

"Yeah, I drank it after it fell. On my face. To answer your note, I remember everything, your niceness grade has been lowered to a B minus, and where are Lincoln and Octavia?"

Bellamy makes a face. "They haven't showed for breakfast yet. I'm trying not to think about why."

Her laughter is loud and bright, and he doesn't really care at all that it's directed at him.

The 78% chance of him liking sober Clarke rises to a solid 99.8%.

"So," he says, piling bacon and waffles and fruit onto her plate while she watches, bemused. "Long day yesterday."

Clarke winces. "Yeah. Shit, yeah, it was bad. I should have realized how bad before I started on the champagne. I worked an ER shift, and there were _three _car accidents on I-5."

"I thought Lincoln said you and he met in an art class," Bellamy comments. "You're a doctor?"

"Doing my residency," she says. "We met in a studio art class in undergrad, then Lincoln got his teaching credential and I went to med school because I make poor life decisions. Are you done yet?" she asks, and Bellamy sticks a fork in the scoop of fresh whipped cream he'd added to her plate.

"You really need to eat regularly. Not just protein bars, either. Actual meals, with fruits and carbs and protein that's not all soy-based. Shouldn't you, as a doctor, know this?"

"I do know something about that. I also know something about concussions, lacerations, broken bones, and internal bleeding," she rattles off in between bites of waffle. "That was kind of more important yesterday."

"You can't save the world if you neglect yourself," he tells her. "And you really look like you've been neglecting yourself."

"What a charming way to tell a girl she looks like crap," she says dryly, and shoves a whole strawberry into her mouth.

Bellamy just grins, nudges her foot with his. "That's alright. We figured out last night that I'm the pretty one in this relationship."

Clarke snorts, practically inhaling bacon. "Since when is this a relationship?"

He shrugs. "Since I'm asking you out on a date. Tomorrow work?"

Clarke opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "Is this a ploy to make sure I don't go the whole day without eating again?"

"Yes," he says, handing her a coffee cup now that he figures she's eaten enough for it not to make her sick to her stomach. "So, tomorrow?"

She smiles down into her mug, wrapping her hands around it. "Tomorrow."


	34. Matchmaking (Out)

From sandycoelho on tumblr: "I would love to read something about Octavia being the matchmaker to Bellamy and Clarke because she knows and see the way they like each other, without doing something to be together."

* * *

The pretty little blonde who opens the door when Octavia knocks is the opposite of her brother's type.

Bellamy likes brunettes, occasionally redheads, and he likes them tall, so he doesn't have to bend down to kiss them. Otherwise he complains about getting a crick in his neck like he's a seventy-year-old man instead of a reasonably athletic twenty-six-year-old.

Octavia's pretty sure she's actually heard him unironically refer to some teenagers as "whippersnappers" before.

"Clarke Griffin?" Octavia asks, and the blonde nods.

"You're here about the room?"

"God, yes, please," Octavia replies, and ignores Bellamy's glower and _hmmph. _He'd been a miserable grump ever since she told him she was moving out of the dorms for her junior year and she wouldn't be moving back in at home. She'd only gotten him to calm down when she'd promised he could accompany her to check out the handful of people looking for a roommate that she'd contacted on Craigslist.

"I'm Octavia," she says, and elbows her brother. "This is Bell, my brother. He's not looking for a room, though; he's just here to make sure you won't murder me in some kind of pagan sacrifice."

"Gotcha," Clarke says, letting them in. "Ritual sacrifices for monotheistic religions are still cool though, right?"

Bellamy snorts a laugh; when she glances at him, he looks as surprised as she feels to hear the sound. Then he adopts a glare. "What?"

"Bell speaks," Clarke notes, smiling.

"Bellamy," he says, almost hasty, almost harsh. "Only my sister gets to call me Bell."

The other woman shrugs it off, only raising a brow, before turning back to Octavia. "Let me show you the spare room."

Clarke is petite, she hates wearing heels and pants, she thinks the twentieth century is the most interesting era in history thus far due to the medical and technological advancements, and she owns her condo outright, which means she's rich. Octavia's honestly not sure there's anyone farther from Bellamy's usual type.

So Octavia expects Bell to hate her new roommate, and there's certainly a lot of sweating and yelling and insults happening when Clarke and Bellamy have to interact while they're helping Octavia move in.

But Octavia sees the way his eyes linger on Clarke when she's not looking, and she's not so sure.

* * *

After living with Clarke for a month, Octavia can say with certainty that Bellamy is the opposite of Clarke's type. She doesn't really seem to have a physical type, but from the stories it's clear she has a pattern when it comes to personality. Her two major past relationships have been with smooth, sophisticated people, the type to not only know the current political events but to want to talk about them.

Bellamy knows about current political events, Octavia concedes, but he's more likely to yell at someone about them, tell them to _go on the fucking internet and educate yourself, jesus_, than to discuss them in calm, measured debate over dinner.

"Okay, you're making pretty normalish relationships sound like episodes of _The Twilight Zone_," Clarke says, throwing a balled-up sock at her. "Just because I like being informed, and like being _with _people who are informed about things that are happening in the world, does not mean I have a weird debate fetish."

"Nah, not debate. You like goody two-shoes," Octavia decides, watching the bead of condensation roll down the side of the ice cream carton balanced on her stomach. Clarke snorts. "Really," Octavia continues, "all that _greater good _and _helping others _and _I don't believe in raising my voice above a loud whisper_. Do community improvement action plans get you going, Clarke?"

"Oh my god," Clarke says, and reaches over to stab a fork into the ice cream carton. They'd run out of clean spoons and neither felt it was really necessary to do the dishes until every utensil was out of commission. "Fine, yes, you've discovered my secret. My turn ons are long walks on the beach and going to town hall meetings together." She sticks the fork in her mouth and flops back against the couch cushions; they're stretched across the huge sectional couch as they marathon ridiculous CW shows during the long weekend.

"I knew it," Octavia crows, and gives herself a brain freeze with the next massive bite of ice cream she eats.

* * *

They go into the city for a baseball game because Clarke's parents give her season tickets for her birthday, and Clarke is actually insanely into it. Octavia buys a team t-shirt so Clarke doesn't disown her; Clarke wears a team shirt, team hat, team sunglasses, and brings the team sweatshirt for when it gets cold.

Bellamy was there when Clarke invited Octavia, because Octavia might not live in his house anymore but he struggles with boundaries, and Clarke went ahead and invited him too; Bellamy goes just so he can root for the other team and piss Clarke off, or at least that's what he says.

"Since when do you like baseball?" Octavia asks when they're on the metro, heading to the ballpark. Clarke and her best friend Raven, who'd been dragged away from her dissertation to make up the quartet, are talking animatedly about the two consecutive home runs the team hit during the last game. As a result, Octavia and Bellamy might as well be alone; the two women are paying them zero attention.

"Huh?" he says absently; Octavia frowns and flicks him in the forehead. "Hey! What the fuck, O?" he gripes, turning to look at her.

"Baby," she says. "Seriously. Baseball? You?"

He shrugs, glances back the way he'd been looking before she flicked him. Octavia follows his line of sight, sees Clarke bouncing on her toes in excitement as she points at the next stop on the line.

"I like it better than football," Bellamy says eventually. "And it's for her birthday. I can be nice for her birthday."

Octavia frowns at him, skeptical, but stands up, getting ready to get off the metro.

During the game, Bellamy catches a foul ball hit their way by the other team, and hands it to Clarke with a smirk and a "Happy birthday, princess."

With a sour expression, she accepts it, but Octavia catches her smiling down at it, tracing the seams, all throughout the rest of the game.

* * *

It's a couple months, all in all, before it really, actually sinks in.

Octavia's gotten used to them bickering, about who's going to pay for slurpees when they walk to 7-11 on a hot, sticky night; about the safety of the neighborhood; about whether artists or historians have more job security—it's endless, and it makes Octavia take forever to realize that they actually like each other.

She hadn't seriously considered it before, even when she'd caught Bellamy eyeing Clarke in her bikini when they'd gone to the lake.

But really, who wouldn't eye Clarke in her bikini? If Octavia hadn't been able to resist, how could her brother be expected to?

But then—it happens more than she can explain away like that. And it's not always that Clarke looks hot, either. She catches him just _looking _at her roommate, thoughtful, and just a couple of times, maybe a little awed.

Octavia worries a little, when she realizes, that her brother's going to get his heart broken, or at least bruised, because, yeah, he's a dick, but he's a dick with feelings. And if he's falling for little blonde Clarke, it's more serious than anything Octavia's seen before.

Bellamy's not—her brother is _not_ a nice guy. He doesn't watch his temper like he should, and being in the car with him during traffic is like being trapped in a tiny box with a drunken sailor on leave. Lots of profanity. _Lots_. He doesn't like Monty and Miller's cat, and who doesn't like their cat? Ernesto tries to curl up in his lap whenever they visit, and Bellamy just holds out his arm like a barricade. He leaves the neighbors tersely-worded notes telling them, basically, to suck it when they ask if Bellamy can't just make an effort to give his house a little more curb appeal.

Bellamy is about the farthest thing from a polite, civic-minded goody two-shoes Octavia can come up with.

How could Clarke ever fall for him?

But then, she mentions that Clarke is home sick with a cold, and the next day she's there to witness Clarke's look of surprise, followed by gratitude when Bellamy stops by with a pot of spicy soup, and the way he gruffly tells her to _take some fucking vitamins and go to sleep, damn it_.

And Octavia considers the way Clarke's fever-flushed cheeks turn just a little pinker, and yeah, her brother is not a nice guy. But Bellamy? Is a really, really good man.

And that might actually be _exactly_ Clarke's type.

* * *

It's actually almost kind of gross after that, because suddenly their bickering doesn't seem like _arguing; _it seems like foreplay, and that's pretty much the most disgusting thing ever.

"You have serious problems," she tells them when they pause for breath during an argument—"_Discussion_," Clarke insisted—about buying in bulk.

"What?" Clarke says, defensive. Octavia rolls her eyes and doesn't bother to reply.

So Bellamy jumps in. "What the hell do you mean by that?" he asks, and Octavia wonders if he realizes how he shifts closer to Clarke, how she unconsciously leans toward him when he does.

"Just make out already," she sighs, and Clarke goes bright red while Bellamy pales.

"That's not—"

"We aren't—"

"Why would you—"

"_Octavia_!"

* * *

Octavia doesn't have to watch them bicker/flirt as much after that, though she thinks that might be because they're getting it out of the way when she's not home.

She would be two thirds ecstatic, one third grossed out if Bellamy and Clarke hanging out without her meant that they were finally making out, but instead she's pretty sure they're just watching weird PBS documentaries about beavers on Netflix, and eating all of her Captain Crunch cereal while she's at work.

"I thought you were cool," she laments one night. Bellamy just left, mumbling about covering Sienna's shift at the museum tomorrow, and she's poking Clarke's leg with her toes while Clarke tries to paint her nails. "I thought, 'hey, cool girl, hot and probably a good wingwoman, my brother doesn't like her, definitely a cool chick. I should move in.'"

Clarke shrugs, tongue poking out a little as she concentrates on the nail polish. "That's your bad choice. I take no responsibility for any assumptions you may have drawn about me, or the decisions you made as a result of them."

"Yeah," Octavia says, texting Bellamy a picture of Clarke and adding a bunch of winky emojis. "You're still hot, I guess, but you're a terrible wingwoman and my brother's basically in love with you."

Clarke lets out a vicious string of profanity when her hand jerks and she gets polish all over her cuticles and the side of her toe.

Octavia watches with mild interest as Clarke tries and fails to salvage the paint job. Eventually she just huffs in irritation, capping the bottle and tossing it aside as she collapses back into the couch cushions.

"No, he's not," Clarke mutters after a moment, which surprises her; she hadn't really expected Clarke to acknowledge her.

So she considers how to respond, how to tell Clarke that her brother's obviously twisted up in knots about her, how he probably wants to swaddle her in blankets and/or have her babies, and how Clarke is becoming just as obvious.

She starts laughing, _hard. _There's definitely cackling happening as she tugs Clarke up off the couch, tucks her phone in her pocket and her flip flops in her hands, and shoves her out the front door.

"Octavia!" she hears faintly as she flips the deadbolt. "Let me in!"

"I can't hear you," Octavia replies loudly, and texts Bellamy _u owe me and ur welcome, loser. _

He texts back in two minutes: _?_

Then, again, in an hour and a half.

_…thanks._

* * *

Bellamy and Clarke finally start making out. Octavia's glad, because the universe has basically validated her as being _super right all the time_, and also because she can stop being so invested in getting them to make out now that they're doing it of their own free will. It had been getting weird.

The only thing she did not factor in was that they'd be doing it of their own free will literally all the time.

The fifteenth time Octavia walks in on them making out, which is also the fourth time she walks in on them basically groping each other on the couch, she groans, turns right back around, and goes to the coffeeshop downtown to start a new Craigslist search for somewhere to live.

The hot barista's nametag says he's Lincoln, and he offers her coffee, an extension cord when her laptop starts to die, and a sympathetic ear when she feels like complaining about the idea of having to move again.

When Octavia leaves, she figures that if she's going to be concerned about someone making out, it's probably a step in the right direction to be focused on herself this time.

(It doesn't take her _nearly _as long.)


	35. Statistics

From wereadtoliveathousandlives on tumblr: "If you'd told her this morning that her day was going to end up like this, she probably would've just stayed in bed."

This is one of those prompts where someone gives me a sentence of a fic, and I'm supposed to follow it with five. But I can't stop at five, so here's a ficlet!

* * *

_If you'd told her this morning that her day was going to end up like this, she probably would've just stayed in bed._

But instead, she made the mistake of only hitting snooze twice before getting up, getting dressed, and getting stuck on the side of the road a good twenty miles from the wedding she's supposed to be photographing.

"What kind of person stops to help with a flat when they don't know how to change a tire?" she wonders aloud. The guy who'd stopped to help her–and, okay, he's cute; all broad shoulders and freckles and a gorgeous voice, which he'd used to introduce himself as Bellamy–gives her a dirty look and tries to start his car again.

No luck. "The kind of guy who doesn't want poor little blonde girls to get murdered on the side of road because they don't know how to change a tire either," Bellamy grumbles. "There are _statistics_. You were less likely to get murdered if I waited for a tow truck with you."

Clarke squints at him. "How do I know _you're_ not the murderer?" she asks. "What if you're trying to lull me into a false sense of security with your general ineptitude?"

"What kind of side-of-the-road murderer wears a tux when he meets his victims?" he replies, brow furrowed. "That doesn't seem very practical."

"False sense of security," Clarke emphasizes again, and she can see the grin he's fighting to conceal beneath a scowl.

"Or I could be going to my best friend's wedding," he says, "only when I stopped to help a stranger on the side of the road my own car crapped out too."

Clarke perks up. "Wait, the Miller-Green wedding?"

Bellamy looks at her in surprise. "Yeah, actually." He notices the camera bag slung over her shoulder. "Oh."

Clarke smiles. "Yeah. Oh."

When they finally get to the wedding, Clarke has to hurry to get in pre-ceremony shots, but before she runs she turns to Bellamy. "Hey. I owe you a dance later. To thank you for not letting me get murdered."

His slightly stupid grin sticks in her mind after that, and Clarke catches herself smiling at nothing more than once.

On second thought, maybe today isn't so bad.


	36. Retail

From the-girl-who-nerded on tumblr: "How about Bellarke working retail together and having to get up at ungodly hours to restock the store and staying late to put everything back and they always try to outdo each other and their manager gets tired of it and threatens to not let them work together any more and they pretend their not upset by the prospect but they totally are"

Total disclaimer, I am tired and I asked for and filled this prompt while tipsy. It is a Tipsy Prompt.™ It may be utterly ridiculous, but I had fun. :D

* * *

"Do you think this is my color?" Bellamy demands. It's eleven at night, and she and Bellamy are both clopening––meaning they're closing tonight, and have to be back early enough to open, too.

Clarke glances over to him while she continues to put the dressing room go-backs on hangers; the peach colored dress is held up to his cheek as he drapes the garment across his body.

"Oh, absolutely," she says. "But that neckline is a tragedy. You need to show more of your chest or no girl is going to want anything to do with you."

"That's offensive," he says, slinging the dress's hanger over his arm and moving to her side to start on separating the men's go-backs from the boys'. "I have a lot more going for me than my looks, Clarke."

"Like what?" she asks.

"Like how much faster than you I am at go-backs," he retorts, and steals her cart from her.

"Dick," she mutters as he starts hanging all the garments in their proper places, and ignores the fact that, technically, he's doing her work for her.

* * *

They've clopened three nights in a row, and then the next week schedule comes out and they're fucking _signing_. That means showing up to start their shift at four fucking forty-five in the morning on Sunday. All of the sale signs throughout the superstore need to be replaced, either by different sales or returned to their normal retail prices, by the time the store opens at seven a.m.

"Do you think," Clarke says as she jogs toward the doors at four-fifteen Sunday, "that bomb threats against the store are, like, taken really seriously?" She wants to _die_, she is so fucking tired.

Bellamy huffs, breath coming out in visible little puffs in the cold morning air, and glances at her while he tries to beat her to the entrance. "Probably," he says, "but you should try it out anyway. See what happens."

Clarke flips him off and throws herself into a fucking painful sprint. She ends up slapping the "NO ENTRY" sign on the exit doors just a second before Bellamy does, and through her wheezing pants she crows, "Take _that, _Blake!"

He's pretty pathetic, honestly. His legs are a good half a foot longer than hers, and she still beat his ass.

Suddenly, Clarke nearly topples over, which is annoying considering how much she was enjoying Bellamy's sour expression while she leaned on the doors, catching her breath.

The manager stands back to let them into the store, and Clarke shuffles inside, sighing. Bellamy follows, pushing his hair back from his face, and Clarke totally doesn't notice the sharp line of his jaw when he yawns.

Indra looks at them, exhaustion clear on her face as she locks the door behind them. "You two realize you don't get overtime just because you voluntarily showed up for your shifts half an hour early."

"It's his fault," Clarke insists the same moment Bellamy blames her.

* * *

Octavia Blake shows up in her line at checkout. She only has one item, and Clarke grins because she is going to fucking _win, _and all because Bellamy's own flesh and blood betrayed him in their "who can get the most people through their checkout line in fifteen minutes" contest.

"I knew you liked me better," Clarke declares, and scans the DVD Octavia's buying. "Your brother's basically unlovable, right? You can tell me," she adds sympathetically. "My dad's a psychologist. I'm predisposed to being a great listener."

Octavia just rolls her eyes and gestures at checkout stand four, Bellamy's line. "You tell me."

Clarke looks at the long line of women, and the stupidly charming smiles he's directing at them, and frowns.

"He's just lucky his face is like..._that_," Clarke decides, and ignores the curdle of jealousy in her belly and Octavia's knowing smirk.

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Kane says, and he sounds tired and annoyed and basically this is starting like every conversation Clarke's had with her mother since her parents got divorced and Clarke decided to move out into her own apartment.

_You don't need to work retail, Clarke_, her mother likes to say, exasperation weighing down her voice. _This is not your life._

She likes to say that, that _this is not your life _bit, as if Clarke's life is a disaster just because she's working retail and supporting herself while she takes classes at the community college. Clarke feels pretty awesome when she thinks about that, honestly. And frankly, Clarke's not even all that impressive; she knows Bellamy is taking classes, working, and putting his sister through her own general education requirements at the same time.

There's nothing disastrous about making a living and going to school like this.

"You two are getting out of hand," Kane continues, and fuck, if he's going to continue like this in that voice Clarke's going to try and get his number for her mother.

Bellamy fidgets in the seat next to her, though, and she immediately feels guilty. Because, in a way, her mother is right. This is not her life, because if she fails, her mother or her father will take her in and support her.

This _is _Bellamy's life, and he needs this job because he has his little sister to support, and no one to support either of them if he fails. He doesn't have the luxury of being allowed to fail.

Clarke adopts a contrite expression, at least until she hears what the hell Kane wanted to talk to them both about.

"You're being disruptive," he states, "rushing customers through the store, racing go-backs down the aisles, coming in so early and staying so late that shift managers have to put in for overtime."

Clarke fidgets a little too at that, and a glance at Bellamy shows her his cheeks are glowing red.

"Now I don't know what kind of," Kane wiggles his hands at them in a vague gesture, "_nonsense _is going on between you two, but as of right now you're being put on probation."

Clarke swallows, glances again. Bellamy's jaw is clenched, and he's staring at his knees.

"Oh, for god's sake," Kane gripes. "Not official probation, Blake. But you and Griffin are going to be separated until you can prove you're behaving like model employees."

_Shit_, Clarke thinks.

"Fine," she says lazily. "Great."

"I'd actually like to thank you," Bellamy says, "I'm pretty sick of her, honestly."

* * *

The next week––god, it fucking _sucks_. She clopens with Maya, who is sweet and cute and Clarke considers hitting on her, just for something to do, but she has a feeling Maya would just blush and/or file a mildly-worded complaint with HR.

So she doesn't, and her shifts are utterly _dull, _and she nearly falls asleep at the wheel on her drive home because all she can think about is her bed, instead of how much she wants Bellamy Blake _in _her bed, which is what usually keeps her going through clopening shifts.

Clarke does run into him, once, in the breakroom. He's staring, mesmerized, at his food on the rotating tray in the microwave as it heats.

"Bellamy!" she says loudly when she's been standing next to him for a good two minutes. He nearly falls over, which is adorable.

"Fuck," he says, then looks around, eyes bleary, for a manager, or Cage because that dick likes to snitch to the managers about stupid shit like the occasional curse word.

Thankfully, they're alone.

"Oh," he says, and clears his throat. "Uh, I didn't know you were here."

"They put me in softlines," Clarke says, and Bellamy nods. If somebody were put in softlines, they were stuck doing clothing and shoes and dressing room go-backs, and the chances of them ever even seeing someone _not _in the same area during their shift was about 2%.

"I'm at checkout," he says. "I'll be working softlines tomorrow, though. Opening."

Clarke smiles faintly. "I'm closing tomorrow. Hardlines." Baby clothes, electronics, toys, food.

Bellamy shrugs, staring at the microwave again.

"This...this kind of sucks, doesn't it," he asks, conversational.

"God, it's the _worst_," Clarke says, and Bellamy cracks a smile. "Sterling won't even race carts in the parking lot with me, Bellamy! This is serious."

"Maybe if you'd stop trying to get people to race carts in the parking lot, we'd be off unofficial probation," Bellamy points out, and Clarke wants to tell him how fucking wrong he is and also make out with him.

But she doesn't, because that sounds wildly stupid and awesome and absolutely like something she shouldn't do, and instead steals forkfuls of his weird, spicy leftovers while he complains and pushes the tupperware closer to her.

* * *

Their first shift back together is...well, it's interesting.

Kane's there, at least at the beginning, so Clarke pretends she doesn't even _know _a Bellamy, let alone the Bellamy Blake who's working the checkout stand right next to hers. Anybody named Bellamy is totally lame, in her opinion, and totally not someone she would make out with and/or marry, given the chance.

And then Kane leaves.

"Thank god," Clarke says, and because there is literally _one _person in the entire fucking store, turns off the light of her checkout stand and logs out of the register. Bellamy grins as she hops up onto his conveyor belt, and Clarke beams.

"I'm going to kick your ass in go-backs tomorrow," she says cheerily.

Bellamy, because he's an asshole, pushes the button that makes the conveyor belt move. Clarke shrieks as the belt moves beneath her, then glares as it tows her closer to him.

"You wish," he tells her. "I've been practicing, you know. Murphy doesn't believe in corporations and refuses to actually try to finish his shit before closing. So I've been doing all of the shit on our shifts."

"Like that's any different than usual," Clarke teases, and then she blanches a little. She doesn't––it's not like she doesn't try to do her work, or that she wouldn't finish on time, but Bellamy _does _like to take a lot of her stuff when they're on shift. But she doesn't––

They don't _admit _it. Or they don't admit it to each other, that they do each other's work, but Clarke's definitely accidentally-or-on-purpose admitted it to her best friend, which she's regretted ever since as Raven takes every possible opportunity to bring up how Clarke's clearly in love with him, and Bellamy with her.

Which is _not _true. Like, at all.

Mostly.

"Yeah, well. I'm not the only one," he mutters, but glances up at her from under his lashes. They're such long ones, too, pretty and dark against his cheeks and _fuck. _

She flushes, and then her hip hits the bumper at the end of the conveyor belt, and she's only inches from him. From Bellamy, and his stupid pretty eyelashes and his stupid pretty face.

"You going to check me out or what?" she asks, and she means for it to be flippant, silly even, but she sounds fucking _breathless _and stupid, and––

Bellamy just looks at her for a long moment, then he fucking _grins _and reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear.

"Well. Since you asked so nicely," he says, and leans over to kiss her.


	37. Atlas

From apanoplyofsong on tumblr: "Does it count as a prompt if I say literally anything involving Bellarke and dogs because I know what I'm about?"

Another Tipsy Prompt.™

* * *

"Look at him, Bellamy."

Bellamy clenches his eyes shut. "No."

"_Look_. Be a man, you dipshit, and look at him."

"There's no call for that kind of foul fucking language, Griffin," Bellamy gripes, and cracks his eyelids open. "_Fuck_."

The puppy is chubby. It has _rolls_. Its paws are enormous, and its ears are like Dumbo ears. Even as he watches, Clarke pulls the black ears in front of the puppy's eyes, like a blindfold.

"Oh my god," he says. "Did you literally ask for the fattest puppy they had?"

Clarke gives him a strange look. "He was the runt."

"He was the––_fuck_, what kind of mutant dog parents did this thing have?" Bellamy demands. "If this is the runt, what the hell did the others look like?"

Clarke smiles serenely and holds out the pup to him. Its tail is tucked between its hind legs, and it whimpers a little, hanging there in the air and looking bashful.

"No," he says, but it's weaker this time. "I don't––I don't want it."

"I think he looks like an Atlas," Clarke says, and deposits the puppy in his lap.

"I hate you," Bellamy says, and the black lab puppy lets out a little doggy sigh and rests his head on Bellamy's thigh.

"You love me," she counters, and scoots closer so she can watch the small dog snuggle into his lap.

"Fuck," Bellamy mutters. "You are––you are the _worst_."

Dogs are just money-wasting, time-wasting, shoe-chewing nightmares, and he––

"You _love _me," she repeats, singsong, and Bellamy slumps. He does.

"I love you," he agrees, and rests a careful hand on the puppy's back. His tail thumps with joy at the touch, and Bellamy has pretended he didn't _really _want a dog since Octavia was born and his mother told him they could afford a dog or a sister, not both, and the sister was nonnegotiable.

But of course, Clarke figured it out. She figures out everything about him, sooner or later. Probably because he's transparent as fuck around her because he's stupid in love with Clarke Griffin, but still.

She gets him.

"You're taking him out when he needs to pee at night," Bellamy says, scratching gently behind the soft Dumbo ears. The puppy gazes up at him, adoring, and Bellamy is––god, he is not going to fucking _cry_, this is ridiculous.

"No, I'm not," Clarke replies, and kisses him on the cheek. "And I love you too, babe."


	38. Love You Much Better

From apanoplyofsong on tumblr:

"I feel like I should keep up the tradition and prompt you about dogs but it feels like that would take so much ENERGY right now" + "wtf is that thing and what are you doing with it?" A Tipsy Prompt.™

* * *

Clarke's cat _loves _Bellamy, and she thinks it's radically unfair.

"Like, what the fuck?" she says, gesturing at Calliope with her tumbler of coke and whiskey. "Look at that attention-mongering jerkface. She should love _me _like that, not you."

Bellamy doesn't look away from the television. He's got the PS3 controller in his hand and he's rapidly flipping through movies on Netflix.

It's date night, which means they refuse to go out on dates when there are twenty-three restaurants within delivery distance and a near infinite number of choices on Netflix. Really, they're being very responsible adults: they're saving money, and they're also not going to get arrested for public indecency when they start groping each other on the couch.

It nearly happened once. They're still banned from the local science museum for another fifteen months.

"It really doesn't matter," Bellamy says, and seems to deliberate between a documentary about elk and something that Clarke guesses combines both mistaken identity and the Christmas season in an amazingly terrible film.

"Christmas," Clarke tells him, and he obligingly presses play and settles back into the couch.

Clarke frowns when Calliope, already purring, starts to butt her head against Bellamy's hip. "Hussy," she tells her, then pushes the cat off the couch so _she _can drape herself over Bellamy instead.

"You're jealous of your cat," Bellamy tells her, amused, and starts stroking her hair.

"Yeah, well, you don't even _like _her. I feed her and spend too much money on toys that make weird noises and I even buy her sensitive stomach cat food. Does she rub up on my legs whenever I walk in the door? No!"

"Babe," Bellamy starts, but Clarke's on a roll.

"Does she climb up on my lap when I'm trying to get her to cuddle? _No_, but all you have to do is hold out your hand and she's all over you!"

"I hold out my hand because I'm trying to keep her away," Bellamy replies desperately. "It's a barricade. I'm allergic to her!"

"She doesn't care!" Clarke retorts. "I pet her all the time and she couldn't care less. You pet her _once _in _three weeks _and she won't stop using your feet as petting posts. She loves you and hates me and she's a _traitor_."

Bellamy pauses long enough that Clarke turns her head to peer up at him. He looks thoughtful.

"What?" she says, and someone in the movie finds out they're Santa Claus's long-lost great-niece. Or something; it's October and Clarke's not ready to be invested in terrible Christmas movies quite yet, so she's not quite paying attention.

"I ignore her," her boyfriend replies slowly, "and I try to keep her away from me. I only give her attention when I get a strange urge."

"Yeah, okay Blake, stop narrating your life. Only Morgan Freeman can get away with that; you're just embarrassing yourself."

Bellamy gives her a dirty look, but before he can reply Clarke's jaw drops and she sits up.

"Oh my god. You're a cat!"

Bellamy sighs.

* * *

It's a lot easier to stomach Calliope's preference for Bellamy once they've both realized that Bellamy, in essence, treats Calliope as a cat treats a human. She must sense some kind of kinship with him, while Clarke is basically a cat groupie. She can't control how much or how often she demonstrates her affection for cats.

It's still kind of rude, but. That's what she gets for loving her stupid cat.

She sulks a little, but she's mostly over it.

Mostly.

Then it's a week later, and Bellamy texts her to meet him out at the parking spot. Their apartment has a single car garage that they battle over, and Clarke had won that day when she got home an hour before him. The loser has to park in the assigned space in the lot, which is uncovered and surrounded by oversized SUVs.

Clarke slips into her flip flops and pulls Bellamy's old university hoodie over her head before heading out. He must have gotten the value size thing of cat litter from Costco, which she always tells him not to; the savings are not worth the muscular strain of trying to carry that stupid thing up the stairs to their apartment.

She finds him outside of his old Toyota, and he does not have cat litter with him.

"What the fuck is that thing and what are you doing with it?" Clarke says. It's wiggly and loud, yipping in excitement as Bellamy holds it out to her.

"Meet Minerva," he says, and follows Clarke as she backs away. "Our new dog."

"Excuse me?" She stares at him, at the dog. It's gazing at her, mouth open in joyous pants.

"I already yelled at her for peeing in the car," Bellamy tells her, mild disgust on his face, and thrusts the dog into her arms. "She's guaranteed to like you better than me now. So, you know. Pet-wise, we're even."

"That's not––oh my god," Clarke says, helpless. The dog licks her chin and even sneaks her tongue into Clarke's mouth when she opens it to yell at Bellamy.

Clarke sputters and makes gagging noises, holding the dog away from her. "Oh my god, what have you done."

Bellamy shrugs and refuses to take the dog back. "I already paid the additional pet deposit with the housing office."

Clarke groans, and Minerva introduces her to her tongue again.

* * *

"But I don't _want _her to love me better," Clarke says, despairing, and Bellamy laughs at her. Minerva is curled up in Clarke's lap, Calliope in his, and Bellamy is sneezing while the cat purrs and the dog nibbles on the hem of Clarke's sleep shorts. "Let's give her back. Shit, let's give Calliope back too. Buy one get one free. Somebody somewhere wants a slobbery dog and a rude cat."

"Nobody wants a slobbery dog and a rude cat," Bellamy says, and she droops, but pets Minerva gently anyway. "But it's okay, Clarke," Bellamy adds, soothing, laughter in his eyes. "She might love you better, but I love you the _best_."

Clarke kicks him and tells him she loves him too.


	39. Laughter

From tierannasaursrex on tumblr: "TIPSY PROMPT: GROUNDER BELLAMY"

Yeah, another Tipsy Prompt.™

* * *

The _Trigedakru _had apparently watched in equal parts astonishment and amusement when they'd landed; when one of their scouts had reported that some of the delinquents started using the river as a bathroom upstream of where they were taking their drinking water, the earthborn took pity on them.

Clarke can only be in so many places at once, okay? Not everyone paid attention in earth skills and it's very hard to tell teenagers where they can and cannot take a piss.

So it's kind of a relief, after it stops being a big fucking shock that there are people on earth, when the _Trigedakru _tells them in no uncertain terms that they are coming home with them before they all die.

Bellamy is one of the earthborn sent to escort them to TonDC, and honestly, Clarke's first, second, and seventh impressions of Bellamy _kom Trigedakru_ is that he's kind of a dick.

"Your people in the sky must be very primitive if they don't know not to shit where they drink," he says easily while they trudge through the woods. It's still weird, walking on the uneven surface where things rudely fall from the trees just to trip her up. She glares up at him, and promptly trips over a root.

He laughs at her until she can see the sheen of tears in his eyes, and she tells him to go fuck himself.

* * *

It's more of the same that convinces her he's a dick, albeit a stupidly pretty one. She'll do something he thinks is hilarious, like try to convince Jasper it's a bad idea to try to go hunting with the _Trigedakru _when he's barely mastered using the knives they use to cut the meat down here.

Meat was not really a thing in space, so. They're all getting used to it.

Jasper is getting used to it at a slower pace than some of the others.

"Please," Clarke says. "You will die. You will die out there in the woods, and I'm busy here _not_ dying and you will bleed out way before I can get to you and save your stupid life."

Jasper glowers, blusters, generally makes a fool of himself, and Bellamy laughs at her until he starts to cough and wheeze for breath.

Clarke gives him a dirty look. "Too bad I hate you too much to try to help you through that asthma attack."

Bellamy laughs again, then wheezes painfully, and Clarke stalks back toward Nyko's cabin for training.

"Go ahead and die, Jasper!" she yells as she leaves. "See if I fucking care."

Maybe he'll take Bellamy to the grave with him. Like, he'll stab himself with a spear, and when he tries to yank it out it goes flying at Bellamy. Right through his beautiful, awful chiseled chest.

Clarke hums at the thought.

* * *

She does her best to ignore him and/or stick to fantasizing about making a voodoo doll of him (what? She paid plenty of attention in Earth Culture class. She knows how it would work), but weeks after being integrated into TonDC, she's trying to stoke the fire one cold autumn night when Bellamy snickers.

"You're going to freeze to death at this rate," he tells her, and she feels her face contort in irritation.

"Or I could just set _you_ on fire," Clarke snaps, and jabs at a log with a long stick while she pretends it's his face. His stupid, pretty, dark, freckly face. That she doesn't want to lick. At all. "Nice and toasty."

"You could," Bellamy grants, "but I bet we can think of a much nicer way to keep you warm."

She stiffens, then slowly straightens to look at him. "Excuse me?" she demands flatly.

He grins at her. "You heard me."

Clarke narrows her eyes at him.

Bellamy starts to look a little nervous, which she appreciates. All of the other kids from the Skybox have found homes with other families, made friends with the young people of the village, and no one really has any reason to _listen _to her anymore, let alone be wary of her. Which is good, mostly, but it's weirdly kind of nice that Bellamy seems wary of her now.

She tries not think about what it means about her, as a person, that she likes him being kind of scared about her.

Whatever. Nobody's perfect.

"_Excuse _me," she repeats.

"I just meant..." he trails off, looking suddenly bashful. "Um. I have an extra cloak?"

"Your extra cloak is nicer than a warm fire?"

"That's not––I mean––uh. Yes?"

Clarke squints at him, realization dawning. "You're terrible at this."

He flushes. "Well––_you're_ terrible at stoking that fire."

She pokes the log one more time, and the flames lick up the wood, consuming it with cheerful crackling noises.

"Apparently not," she says, and tosses the stick in the fire to burn.

She turns, presses a hand to his chest, trails it down toward his ragged leather belt. He's holding himself tensely, but she feels a shiver travel through his body. "Apparently not," she repeats, and this time, she's the one that laughs while she walks away.

* * *

"You're right," he says the next morning, when they're in line for breakfast. He'd found her there, and had glared at Wells when her friend protested him cutting in line for the food. Clarke doesn't see the big deal; it's probably porridge, _again_, which is better than soy packs but worse than panther. Clarke does not enjoy it.

"Yes," Clarke agrees. "About what?"

"I'm terrible at this," Bellamy says, seemingly dejected, and Clarke laughs so hard she snorts, which is when Bellamy kisses her because he's a strange earthborn boy with strange earthborn turn-ons, like hot girls from space laughing at him.

Well. Maybe they're better suited than she originally thought.

"Damn it," he grumbles; she's still giggling as he pulls away. "I was hoping that would shut you up."

Clarks rolls her eyes, calls him a dick––fondly, this time, because he's a dick but apparently he's _her _dick, and she pulls his mouth back down to hers.

"Gross," Wells says, disgusted, and they both laugh at him together.


	40. How You Get the Girl

From madjm on tumblr: "Clarke inadvertently challenges Bellamy to try to hit on her by laughing at the fact that he has no game." Tipsy Prompt.™

* * *

Bellamy's been left for better prospects no fewer than three times tonight, and Clarke's torn between feeling sorry for him and being amazed. Also maybe between feeling a little bit satisfied because he is _her _hot, funny, dumb friend and those girls don't deserve him even a little bit, but mostly between the two things. She swears.

"How have you ever gotten a girl to fuck you?" Clarke wonders aloud, and steals a sip of his whiskey and Coke because hers is empty and it is a tragedy. "Scratch that. How have you ever even gotten a girl to kiss you? That was pathetic. _You're _pathetic."

"Fuck you, Clarke," Bellamy says mildly, and steals both his drink back _and _the basket of peanuts she'd been reaching for.

"Is it because you're a nerd?" she asks, sympathetic. "I've been there. When I was twelve or something like that. You've just got to own it, Bellamy. Like, get some chunky glasses and pretend you've never been to a gym. It's just that your body's naturally like that. Girls love that stuff."

Bellamy glances down at himself. "My body _is _naturally like that."

"See? That's a great start," she soothes, and waves her hand in the air dismissively. Then Clarke brightens when that seems to summon the bartender with a fresh cocktail for her.

"Magic! I told you I'm a witch," Clarke says, and Bellamy sighs.

"I ordered that for you ten minutes ago."

Clarke narrows her eyes, partly because she doesn't remember, because she's done with finals and also a little drunk, and partly because she's having trouble seeing him clearly, _also _because she's done with finals and also a little drunk.

She's really, really glad to be done with finals.

"When?" she demands. "When did you have time? Wait, was it between those times you had no game with Jessica and then had no game with Lauren? Ooh, wait, or was it when you had no game with Maria from Stats class?"

"Maria from Stats class was totally into me," Bellamy argues, and Clarke frowns.

"She left you to go over and hit on the organist from the church on Seventh Street."

"Yeah, well––" Bellamy sneers at her. "He's probably a really nice guy, so."

"Ooh, wow," Clarke replies. "Yeah, I should just suck it, obviously, because your point is so much more valid than mine."

"I hate you," Bellamy says.

Clarke pats him on the shoulder, then leans against it because gravity is hard and so are the muscles in his arms, and she hates the former and loves the latter.

"I know," she says, consoling. "It's hard not to hate someone who has so much more game than you do."

"Screw you," he says without heat. "I have so much game. Like, so much."

"Nah," Clarke says. "You're Bellamy. You're very pretty but your looks are pretty much all you've got going for you. Like, your personality? I lied before; owning your nerdiness would _never _work. Way too much in there about Ancient Ostia versus Pompeii, and how you would totally win at _Teen Jeopardy!_ even though you're _twenty-six, _Bellamy, you can't go on _Teen Jeopardy! _and how you know Pluto's technically not a real planet but you miss it anyway."

Bellamy flushes, and she grins up at him.

Then he moves his arm so she's somehow wrapped up in it, leaning against his chest instead of his stupid hard arm muscles.

His chest is stupid and hard, too, so she doesn't bother to move, but she is a little confused.

"Bell," she says, and he looks down at her. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his lips curved gently in something in between a pout and a smirk. She's not sure how that works, but––it works on him.

_Fuck_, does it work on him.

This is not...this is not a good idea, nor something she was planning for. Her best friend should not be practicing this weird pout/smirk combo on her; it is not _fair _and she protests.

She snuggles closer. "Bell, did you know you have no game?"

"Yeah?" he says, and dips his head so his lips brush against her ear when he whispers. "Why don't you tell me about that?"

She shivers a little, which is embarrassing, and she's also, like, embarrassingly into this. She probably needs to leave and go home, and probably get herself off if she plans to sleep, and if not, she definitely needs to at least change her panties because her stupid best friend is stupid hot even if he's the worst at girls.

She should give him some tips, she muses. She's pretty good at girls.

Then his fingers, the ones that are attached to the hand attached to the arm draped around her shoulders, brush the top of her breast and she discards _giving Bellamy tips about girls_ as a terrible idea.

"Um," she squeaks instead, and Bellamy's neck is mottled red when she looks but he's looking back at her all intense and moody-looking and shit, and––

"Sorry," he says, voice rough. "I didn't––uh, I didn't meant to do that. Exactly."

He's super awkward about it, and pretty much has negative game at this point, on an objective scale, but somehow on the Clarke scale he's got way too much game.

"What did you mean to do?" Clarke asks, trying to distract herself, and Bellamy gives her a lopsided grin that has her insides flopping around in an undignified manner.

"This," he says, and brushes his knuckles against her collarbone, ghosting over the skin bared by her celebratory low-cut "fuck you college, I'm done with finals!" top.

She gets goosebumps.

So she pulls away, and nearly falls off her stool.

When she straightens, wincing, Bellamy is grinning at her, delight all over his face.

"I've got game," he announces. "Admit it, Griffin!" He jabs her lightly in the chest, below her collarbone but above where he's semi-groped her. "I've got more game that you can handle."

Clarke rolls her eyes, ignoring the burning of the flush in her cheeks. "Get over yourself. It only counts as legitimate game if you get the girl, Blake."

He's doing a weird victory shuffle/dance in his barstool, but pauses at her words. "It only counts if I get the girl?"

She scoffs. "Obviously. You've got to back it up, Bellamy, get real _results _with your game, or else––"

He kisses her then, hands sliding into her hair, licking into her mouth so she can taste the whiskey on his tongue, and she lets out an embarrassing whimpering sound that has him scooping her right off her stool and into his lap. Which is, you know, fine, cool, whatever, so what if she can feel him getting hard beneath her and can feel the vibration of his own desperate sounds as they rumble through his chest?

Then the bartender sets the tray holding their bill on the counter in front of them with a decisive click, glaring, and tells them to get a room.

Clarke pants a little, staring at Bellamy, and he lowers his lashes, almost shy.

Finally, she says, "Wow."

"Wow?" He echoes, sounding hopeful and maybe a little terrified.

"_Wow_," Clarke repeats. "Bellamy...

"What?" he asks, edgy when she doesn't immediately respond.

Clarke licks her lips and then beams at him. "Yeah, okay. You might have a _little _game."

Bellamy's arms are around her waist, holding her still, which is good because her getting of his lap at this exact moment in time would be embarrassing for the both of them. "You said it only counts as legitimate game if I get the girl. Does that mean I...?" he trails off, sweet and nervous and cocky all at once.

What a nerd.

She grabs his collar, draws him in for another kiss, and grins. "Yes, Bellamy. That absolutely means you got the girl."


	41. Jack-o'-Lantern

From bellamyplake on tumblr: "spooky prompt: clarke is big huge pregnant and bellamy paints her belly like a pumpkin and octavia's babies are fascinated"

* * *

Summer is clinging on with a death grip, which means it's nearing Halloween and the temperature is in the nineties.

Clarke is due in a week and a half, and she's already suffered through June, July, August, _September, _sweating through day after day of excessive heat while she gets slower, bigger, _rounder_. She feels like it is not too much to ask for autumn to act like autumn, damn it, and cool the hell down.

Little shrieks of delight reach her ears, and she cracks an eye open to watch Eli and Nora run around the backyard as Bellamy joins her on the porch swing.

"I tried convincing them we could play pirates and mermaids in the bathtub if they came in for bath time," Bellamy says, draping his arm around her shoulders. She leans her head against him, even though he's too warm and the air is sticky and hot as it heads toward sundown, and the baby turns in her womb.

"Which would you be?" Clarke asks idly, tracing patterns on his thigh.

"Mermaid, obviously."

Clarke smiles into his chest. "Obviously. Did it work?"

Bellamy sighs. "Not even close. They say they want to do art before bath time. Apparently Lincoln draws or paints or sculpts or something with them, every night." Octavia and Lincoln are at a wedding out of town for the night, and Clarke and Bellamy are used to caring for the kids—they're both teachers, so during the summers they take Eli and Nora for the day while Octavia and Lincoln work—but they've never actually had to do an overnight before.

"So paint with them," Clarke says, shrugging, and Bellamy huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to her brow.

"I'm not exactly the artist in this relationship, Clarke," he says dryly.

"Well, I'm on maternity leave," Clarke replies. "I'm as round as a pumpkin and I'm not actually sure I can get off this bench, physically."

"Do you _want_ to get off this bench?" he asks immediately. He's been like this her whole pregnancy—almost obnoxiously perfect, listening to her complain about the heartburn she gets whenever she eats her favorite spicy food, watching her carefully but never _hovering_ in the helicopter fashion she'd feared he might, only offering help when she seems to need it, and not a second sooner so she never feels like an invalid.

Clarke sighs. "No, not really. I'm as comfortable as I can get, these days."

"Okay." He sighs when Nora shrieks at her little brother that _he can't catch her! "_What do you think the odds are, me getting them clean and in bed before a meltdown?"

She hums, considers the rising pitch of the kids' voices. "Terrible. You should really try that art thing, Uncle Bell. I believe in you."

"What the hell am I supposed to paint?" he demands. "I'm an _English _teacher, not an art teacher like some people."

She pats his chest, then pushes him away from her because damn it, it's just too hot for any more cuddling. "Whatever the hell you want, Blake. Check Lincoln's studio for supplies."

Bellamy sighs, kisses her, and drags himself off the porch swing and into the house.

Clarke watches the kids play tag through heavy-lidded eyes. She'd been there for both of their births, Nora three and a half years ago, Eli two. Lincoln and Bellamy had both cried at each birth, but while Octavia had teared up a little, she mostly just looked victorious and proud when she held her babies.

Clarke declines to comment on the state of her own tear ducts when Nora and Eli let out their first cries.

It's kind of hard to believe that _Clarke _is going to be one holding her own baby in a matter of weeks. It still gets her heart racing sometimes, in awe and in terror and in love, because when she was first introduced to her best friend's new girlfriend and her brother, she hadn't exactly bonded with the surly English teacher. She usually trusted Lincoln's taste, but _god_, she'd feared for him when she'd met the Blakes. Octavia was lovely, bright and open and a perfect match for Clarke's quiet friend, but the brother was prickly and protective and beautiful and _rude _when she'd tried to make small talk about their similar careers.

But things had gotten better, slowly, when she took the vacant art teacher position at the middle school where Bellamy was tenured. They discovered they tended to fall on the same side of things during debates on cost-of-living wage raises, banned books, whether or not the principal deserved to be investigated by the district. By the time they danced together at Lincoln and Octavia's wedding, a year after the two had met, she and Bellamy were almost friends.

Then, a few weeks later, he'd kissed her in her classroom after school one day, right in the middle of her rant about the cut to library funding. And that was just right.

Five years later, she's married to the man, in one of those weird ways no one believes in real life because _when _do best friends actually marry siblings like in the movies? She has a pretty little house, a hot, adoring husband, a niece and nephew she loves.

And in a matter of weeks—days, even—she and Bellamy will have a baby.

Bellamy emerges onto the porch again, lets an armful of non-toxic finger paint tumble onto the bench beside Clarke as she watches.

"Eli! Nora! Want to do art?"

"No!" Eli declares, which is, to be fair, one of his favorite words, but he appears to mean it as he continues to chase Nora around the yard. Nora giggles and joins in with his chant, and Clarke closes her eyes on the chorus of "No, no, no!" that fills the yard.

"Fine," she hears Bellamy say loudly. "I'll just art all by myself."

"Art is not really a verb," she tells him. The baby kicks, and she shifts a little in her spot. "You should know."

"Be quiet," he says. "That's how they say it on the internet. I'm hip."

Clarke snorts, and then her eyes pop open as he rolls up her tank top to expose her belly. There are stretch marks on the lower part of the curve, which she hates and Bellamy loves to trace with his mouth, which makes her hate them less, and her belly button's long since given up the fight to stay an innie.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asks mildly.

"Whatever the hell I want," he retorts, mischief in his eyes as he echoes her words, and Clarke sighs.

She watches with interest as he loudly narrates what he plans to do, how he couldn't find the right orange so he's going to mix yellow and red until it's_ just right_.

Clarke lets out a squeak when the paint squirts out of the tubes onto her skin, and behind Bellamy, in the yard, she can see Nora and Eli slow their running and turn their attention toward the porch.

Bellamy grabs a paintbrush, one that's really meant for watercolors, not Crayola washable paint, and starts swirling the red and yellow together. Clarke squirms a little as the bristles drag over her skin, biting her lip to keep the giggles in.

The kids creep up the porch stairs, inching closer until they're staring, mesmerized, at the paint that Bellamy's slowing covering Clarke's belly with.

"Uncle Bell?" Nora says eventually. "What are you painting?"

"Baby?" Eli asks before Bellamy can respond, looking from Clarke's protruding belly to her face. She reaches out, smoothes a hand over his dark hair.

"Yeah, honey. The baby's in there."

Just then, the baby kicks hard enough for it to be seen on the outside. Eli's eyes round. "Baby!"

"Uncle Bell!" Nora squeals, tugging on his arm. "You're painting the baby!"

Clarke grins at him as Bellamy tries to convince Nora that he's not, in fact, painting the baby.

"I'm painting a pumpkin," he explains. "On Aunt Clarke's belly, because it's round like a pumpkin."

Clarke huffs a little, but Nora and Eli exclaim in agreement.

"Can we paint?" Nora asks now.

"Wanna paint!" Eli agrees.

Bellamy makes a show of considering it, until the kids are nearly vibrating with excitement. "Okay," he says finally. "Hold out your hands."

Clarke cringes at the thought, but they're in their already-stained play clothes, and bath time is next on the schedule, so she keeps quiet.

Bellamy paints their palms and fingers until they're coated in orange.

"Okay, guys," Bellamy says, and she catches his wince when he shifts in his crouch. His knees are probably killing him.

"Old man," she teases, and he mock-glares at her.

"Okay," he repeats louder. "We're going to play a painting game. Whenever you see the baby move, paint it!"

Eli slaps a hand on Clarke's belly an instant later as the skin ripples with the baby's movement.

"Gentle," Bellamy reminds him. "Be careful with Aunt Clarke and the baby." Eli looks at Clarke sorrowfully.

"Sowwy," he says, already teary, and Clarke smiles.

"It's okay. Just be nice."

He pets her belly carefully, little pats that drag color over the taut skin. Nora nudges her brother until she's right next to him, scrutinizing Clarke's stomach for the next movement. She doesn't have to wait long; the later it gets, the more active the baby is every night. He's waking up now, stretching and turning as he gets more and more crowded in her womb.

"There!" Nora squeals, and lays a deliberate hand over the spot.

"Good job," Clarke praises, and then Bellamy, who's painted his own palm by now, lays a careful hand over the spot too. He leaves a big handprint over her skin, and inexplicably—or at least as inexplicably as she does anything these days—she tears up. One even falls when he looks up at her, face open and so happy as he feels their baby move.

"Clarke?" he says when he sees the tear.

She shakes her head, sniffles a little. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

Little by little, they paint her belly, until Clarke really does resemble a pumpkin, all round and orange and silly-looking.

"I'm going to need bath time too," she notes, and Bellamy grins.

"I can help you with that," he promises, and Clarke rolls her eyes even as her cheeks heat. Even now, after years together, he can still make her blush.

"It needs eyes," Nora tells them, scrutinizing the orange expanse. "And a smile."

"Uh huh," Eli agrees seriously, and picks out the tube of black paint from the collection Bellamy had brought earlier. "Hawwoween," he tells them, handing Bellamy the paint. "P'ease?"

"What do you say, Aunt Clarke?" Bellamy says, looking at her. "Jack-o'-lantern?"

"Jack-o'-lantern!" Nora says. "_Please_, Aunt Clarke?"

"Aunt Clarke!" Eli adds, anxious, and pats her belly when he sees it move again.

"Oh, alright," Clarke says. "But when we're done, it's bath time. Got it?"

Nora and Eli both nod vigorously, then hold out their brightly-painted hands for the brushes Bellamy hands them. He squirts the black paint into his own hand, then holds it out like a palette. "Here," he says. "Dip your brush in. Now, we need two eyes, and one smile."

He makes a show of sizing up the kids. "You," he says, tugging one of Nora's curls. "You make one of the eyes. And you," he adds, tapping Eli's nose. "You'll make the other."

That leaves the smile for him, and a few minutes later Clarke has two dark, irregular splotches of paint high on her belly, and a tall, deep 'u' shape making the pumpkin smile. The edges of the grin go higher than the 'eyes,' and it makes Clarke smile in turn.

"Happy," Eli says, satisfied, and reaches out to touch it in admiration before they can stop him. The paint smears, the grin becoming almost frightening, definitely strange-looking, and Eli looks startled at the change.

Nora, thankfully, just sighs long-sufferingly in that way sisters sigh about their brothers.

"I love it," Clarke declares, and leans forward carefully to kiss all of their cheeks. "Baby loves it too."

Bellamy looks at her over the kids' heads as they cheer and wiggle in that too-energetic way kids do when they're more than ready for bed. His smile is soft, sweet, just for her. The first time he'd smiled at her like that, years ago, she'd known she was a goner.

"But what did we say would happen after art?" Bellamy reminds the kids when they quiet down.

"I don't know," Nora replies innocently. Eli echoes her.

"Don't know!"

"That's too bad," Clarke says thoughtfully. "Because _I _remember, and it was going to be so much fun...I guess I'll just have fun without you two."

Eli breaks first. "Bath?"

"Not just any bath," Bellamy reminds them. "Mermaids and pirates!"

"I'm a pirate!" Nora says quickly.

Clarke goes to get up, follow the crew inside so she can clean the sticky pumpkin paint off her belly. And she can't; even when she tries to brace her hands on the bench to push herself up, she can't balance herself right to stand. It doesn't help that the swing moves.

"Um," she says. "I'm stuck."

Bellamy, who'd been distracted telling the kids to put their hands up in the air and keep them there until they get to the bathroom to wash off the paint, looks at her in surprise. Then he grins at her, and she pouts a little.

"Come on, Blake," she says, and holds out her hands. "Save me!"

Nora and Eli watch, hands in the air, as Bellamy leans down and slides an arm around her waist. Her belly presses into him, leaving orange and black jack-o'-lantern paint in an ugly smear across his Ark Middle School t-shirt as he helps lift her to her feet. His hand lingers on her waist as he makes sure she's steady, and Clarke shakes her head at him.

"Now _you're _covered in paint," she points out.

He shrugs. "It was already on my hands. Plus, now we both need a bath."

The way he looks at her tells Clarke he's not talking _mermaids and pirates _bath time with the kids.

Her heart thumps fast, and the baby moves, and she's so, so in love with him.

* * *

Their son is born the next Saturday, on Halloween, and they name him Jack.


	42. As If By Magic

From tierannasaurusrex on tumblr: "GROUNDER BELLAMY + WITCH CLARKE PLSSSS" [a spooky prompt™]

Full title of this chapter: "As If By Magic (You're The Only Home I Know)"

* * *

The witch falls from the stars when Bellamy is ten and Octavia is four, and for a witch, she's not very impressive.

For one thing, she's tiny, barely older than Octavia, and for another, though she speaks their warrior's language, she pronounces the words with a lisp.

Bellamy's the one who finds her, when he's playing in the woods with Lincoln. They hear the crash, smell the strange burning scent, and follow it through the woods to find a big metal box half-in and half-out of the creek.

There's a window of sorts, and Lincoln and Bellamy jostle each other, trying to be the first to peek through the thick, warped glass.

"It's a girl," Lincoln says.

"Shut up," Bellamy says, and cautiously presses closer to the hot metal. "It is not."

And he's right. It's not a girl, because just as he's looking at her, taking in her little face, the blood trickling from her temple, her eyes snap open.

Her irises grow bright silver and she looks straight at him.

When he and Lincoln wake up, they're a good twenty feet away from the box, and the witch is crouched next to them. Her eyes, blue now, plain blue, are fixed on him while he pushes himself to a sitting position, eyeing her warily.

"You scared me," she says primly, but the 'r' in _scared _sounds more like a 'w.' "I didn't mean to."

Bellamy sighs. He's good with English, and he's been taking lessons, but when he replies, the words come to mind and out of his mouth almost too quickly.

Almost magically.

"Just don't do it again, okay?"

"Okay," she agrees, and stretches out her hand to help him to his feet. He takes it, and her palm is soft and pale in his, and his hand suddenly feels like it's been dead asleep, and is coming back to life again all at once.

* * *

She tells them her name is Clarke, Clarke Griffin, and Bellamy thinks it's fitting that she shares a name with a magical creature.

"I'm not a creature," she says hotly when he tells her this. He's thirteen, and she's eight, and the healer who had taken her in uses Clarke to heat the water in the middle of winter to boiling hot, to coax the tender spring buds of the herbs they need for medicine, to put the injured to sleep so they can be stitched up. "I'm a witch."

"You're something," he says, and tugs her braid. He'd been the one to teach her how to do it. Now her fingers are quicker and defter than his, and she comes up with new twists and braids to teach Octavia nearly every week.

She'd taken to their language, too, and was better with _Trigedasleng _after a day than Bellamy was with English after years.

"I'm a _witch_," she'd told him when he'd complained about it, how unfair it was. "I'm magical, dummy."

"Shouldn't there be limits to what you can do?" he'd griped in response. "How is it you can learn languages, knock people out, _and _make things grow...shouldn't there be _something _you can't do?"

She'd shrugged, and told him she'd let him know as soon as she found out what that something was.

They haven't found it yet, though. She and Octavia play in the creek in the middle of winter because Clarke can warm the water until it feels like a hot bath, and she makes shapes in the fire to go along with whatever story Bellamy tells over dinner, and the animals always do what she asks them to, as if they understand.

"You're annoying," she retorts when he tugs her braid again, and flicks his hand away like a fly.

* * *

Clarke is eleven, and he's sixteen, and she's declared that she's in love with Octavia, who just turned ten a month ago.

"I think you're a little young for love," he tells her over lunch, and she smacks his hand before it can reach the complicated braid her hair is in today.

"I think you're a little young to be so cynical about true love," she replies, tart, and Bellamy snorts, and regrets teaching her the word 'cynical.' "But you don't see _me _being rude about it."

"How do you know you're in love?" he tries.

Clarke shrugs. "She's nice, and she's pretty, and she's my best friend, and she makes me laugh, and she smells good."

Reluctantly, Bellamy smiles.

"And," Clarke adds thoughtfully, "I like kissing her. It's nice, and soft."

Bellamy makes a face. "Ugh." What is he supposed to do with that information? He feels like there is something in the rules, about threatening and making sure his little sister doesn't get her heart broken. But he loves them both; he doesn't want Clarke to get her heart broken either. "Ugh," he says again, for lack of anything else to say.

Clarke pats him on the shoulder. "Grow up, Bellamy," she says kindly, and leaves him to his food.

A week later, Octavia and Clarke decide that kissing is nice, but being in love is too time-consuming for their busy schedules; they just can't deal with it right now. Clarke makes it rain a little bit, to commemorate the sad end to their love affair, while Octavia holds her hand and watches solemnly; then they steal some of Bellamy's favorite dried fruit while he pretends not to notice, and spend the evening talking about how pretty Keri is and how funny Miloh was yesterday until they fall asleep.

* * *

When he's eighteen, and she's thirteen, Octavia and Aurora go to visit Octavia's father at the sea like they do every spring after the first thaw, and Bellamy stays home in TonDC. He used to feel jealous, feel the slow curdling distress in his gut that his sister got a father and he got nothing, and then he'd feel guilty, too, because he _loves _his sister, and she deserves a father more than he does.

Then Clarke had looked at him, her eyes turning dangerously grey—not silver, not yet, but it was a warning—and told him he was being an idiot. "You have a mother, and a sister," Clarke had said, voice clipped. "I have a memory of warm hands and the scent of antiseptic."

Bellamy's shoulders had hunched in, and he'd mumbled apologies until she rolled her eyes and elbowed him gently.

"Try and be grateful for what you have," she'd said. "Not angry about what you don't."

So he'd worked on it, because even though she was still small, Clarke was smart, and strong, and a force to be reckoned with, but most importantly, she was his friend.

And this year he'd sent his sister and mother off with strong hugs and a soft yank to Octavia's braid, which earned him a furious look, a kick to the shins, and a quick kiss to his cheek.

They were meant to be gone for two weeks.

Thirteen days later, a sudden snowstorm causes everything to freeze again. It used to be that something like this would be devastating for them, but now Clarke is here to keep the crop seeds they've just started to plant from dying. It exhausts her to do it, the constant drain on her powers, but he makes sure she gets food, water. Naps when the days are at their warmest, and the crops can handle the temperature for a while on their own.

Fifteen days after his mother and sister leave, the snow is just a thin crust on the ground, and it's been cleared away from their crops, so Clarke can finally stop, _sleep_.

After sixteen days with no sign of his family, even Clarke looks worried, and she helps him convince the _heda _that a search party is worth the lost time with spring planting.

"You _know _I can make up for any lost growing time," she says, brows drawn together.

Anya doesn't move but for the smallest twitch of her jaw. They all know what Clarke is, have all _benefitted _from what Clarke is, but most of them don't particularly like to acknowledge it.

"You've never had to do so on such a large scale," Anya points out coolly. "The herb garden is hardly the size of the spring planting."

Clarke huffs. "That doesn't mean I can't do it," she snaps, and her hair frizzes up with the sparks she gives off. Bellamy reaches out, touches her elbow to calm her. She settles, a little, but continues to glare at Anya rather than look at him.

The muscle in Anya's jaw twitches again at the obvious display of Clarke's abilities manifesting. "Fine," she says. "They'll leave at dawn."

But Clarke is shaking her head. "We need to leave _now_," she says. Her voice is strained, her face pinched with worry. "I have a bad feeling," she admits softly, and Bellamy's heart freezes.

Clarke doesn't often have _feelings_ about things, and when she does, the feelings aren't always bad. But they're always _true. _

He looks at Anya, anxious, sick, and wants to cry when the woman just nods sharply at Clarke's statement. "Very well."

They find them in a cave nearly a day's journey from TonDC. The snow is thicker here, the air colder. Clarke falls twice, slipping on the icy ground, before Bellamy takes her hand.

Aurora and Octavia are curled together, faces tucked in each other's necks to minimize exposure. All extra clothes from their packs are on their bodies, and even the packs themselves are draped over them for whatever warmth they can offer.

Next to them is a pile of wet, icy wood that they clearly couldn't get to catch fire.

"No," Bellamy says. "No, no, no, _no_." He lets go of Clarke's hand and drops to his knees next to them, carefully rolling them away from each other. They're pale, cold, which is _wrong_, they're supposed to be pink-nosed and pink-cheeked and shivering from the cold, not pale and still and quiet.

Their lips are blue.

"Bellamy." Clarke's voice is a whisper, and he rubs tears from his face with the back of his hand as he continues to try to wake them up. "_Bellamy_."

"What?" he demands, shooting her a furious look. She's blurry, but even through the tears he can see the luminous glow of her eyes.

"Move," she says, gentle, and for a second, he doesn't react, just stares. Then he scrambles to the side so she can kneel, place one hand on Octavia's face, the other over his sister's heart.

"She's still alive," Clarke says. "Her heart is still beating, just slowly."

Her eyes go soft, unfocused even while they continue to glow. Her body, on the other hand, is tense, every bit of her intent on Octavia. The stray hairs from her braid start to lift, crackling with electricity. Then, suddenly, there's a loud crack, like when lightning split the old oak tree on the edge of the village in the last thunderstorm, and all he can see is white. When Bellamy's vision clears, Octavia's eyes are wide open, her chest heaving as she gasps in air, and her face is flooding with good, healthy color.

"O," he chokes, and gathers her up in his arms. "O."

"Bell," she breathes, and hugs him back. Weakly, tired, but she's _hugging him back_.

"Now her," Bellamy says to Clarke over Octavia's head, still clutching his sister to him. "Please, Clarke, now her." His mother is so quiet, so still.

Clarke looks sick, exhausted. But she stretches her hands out to Aurora, rests them gently on her skin and clothes.

But nothing happens. Clarke's eyes glow, and her hair lifts, and she starts to tremble, straining, but nothing happens.

"Clarke!" Bellamy yells, and Octavia starts to cry into his chest.

"I—I can't," Clarke whispers, stricken. "She's already gone."

She looks at him, at Octavia. Her face is covered in a terrible grief that somehow seems worse than his own. "I'm sorry," she says, faint. Then she passes out.

* * *

Lincoln carries Clarke, because Octavia's still too weak to walk and Bellamy's busy carrying her. The others carry Aurora's body on a makeshift stretcher, and they walk until they're far enough from the cave that Bellamy doesn't feel like he's going to be sick. They make camp in a tight copse of trees, scraping the snow off the ground and pitching tents around the fire they make with dry wood from their packs.

Lincoln tucks Clarke into a bedroll, still passed out, then talks to Octavia to keep her awake long enough to get some food into her. It's been days since she's eaten.

Bellamy focuses on dinner, gathering food from everyone's packs. Dried meat, onions, potatoes go into the pot with water, and the second the meat is soft enough to eat he ladles a bowl for his sister.

She inhales it, and then a second bowl, and then he wraps her in a bedroll and tucks her in next to Clarke. After a slurred, "Love you, Bell," Octavia drifts asleep almost instantly.

Bellamy smooths a hand over her dark hair, then glances at Clarke, out of habit and because he just can't help it anymore.

She saved his sister.

But she didn't save his _mother_.

But she saved his sister, and he loves her for that.

He lets the others finish the stew. He's not hungry. Instead, he goes to lie down, and slips between the girls so he can feel them both breathe.

* * *

Clarke wakes him up in the middle of the night.

Her eyes are tired, tired blue, no hint of grey or silver or magic. "I'm sorry," she whispers to him, over and over, and the sound is what draws him out of troubled, confusing dreams. "I'm sorry, Bellamy. I'm sorry."

She still looks so exhausted, so _young. _And he's reminded, that even with her powers, her abilities, the village depending on her more and more to keep them alive and health and _safe—_she's only a thirteen-year-old girl.

He puts his hand on her cheek; it's cold. "I know, Clarke," he says. He tries for gentle, but his voice comes out rough. "I guess we've found your limit."

Her face crumples, and Bellamy pulls her closer, letting her burrow into him as tears soak his neck.

* * *

Their house feels empty without Aurora, and after a few months of living like that, Octavia begs him to ask Clarke to move in with them.

"She's lonely," Octavia says, and when she clutches her elbows, holding herself tight, it's clear she's not just talking about Clarke. "She needs us."

Their healer had left to go to a different village after the spring trades, a village that had no healer. Even though she was the one who had taken Clarke in, given her a home and food and learning when the little witch fell to the earth, she didn't offer to take Clarke with her. She just told Clarke that she'd already learned all that she could teach her, and there was no point in two healers staying where only one was needed.

"If she lived here, we would get bothered all the time," Bellamy points out. "Anyone with a splinter or a cold would be knocking on our door in the middle of the night, looking for her."

"Do you really care?" Octavia asks.

Clarke looks surprised when Bellamy comes into her house when she's working and tells her she should pack her things, move them into their house.

"Why?" she wants to know, raising an eyebrow as she grinds herbs.

"It's quiet," he says. "We want the company."

"Ask Lincoln," she says promptly, and stares hard at her mortar and pesetle. Lincoln's mother had died when he was born, and his father died last year—panther attack.

"He snores," Bellamy replies. "Really, he shakes the house," he insists when Clarke gives him a look. Plus, his friend is different than Clarke. He does well, alone with his quiet little house. If he asked, Lincoln would move in with them, but only because he'd think _they _needed _him, _not because he wanted to.

"Why?" Clarke asks again after a moment, serious this time. "I have a perfectly good house right here."

There are a lot of answers he could give that would all be true, but only one is the right one.

"Because we love you," he says. There are others in the village who would take her in, give her a place with them if they thought she needed it. They keep quiet about her powers, but even if they don't like to talk about them, they _like _Clarke. "And we want you close."

But the other villagers don't _know_ her, don't know to think that she needs people, home, family around her when she has a perfectly good house and all the healing knowledge to make sure she's a valued part of the village.

But he knows her, because he loves her.

"You'd better not snore like your sister does," she tells him finally, and he gives her a small grin.

"Oh, I do. Even louder," he says, and she groans.

* * *

When Clarke is eighteen, he's twenty-three and Lia starts to flirt with him.

Bellamy has no clue what to do. His sister mostly laughs at him when he tries to ask for help, and then when she leaves to visit Lincoln and Bellamy asks Clarke about it, she just stares at him coolly.

"Do you wantto flirt back?"

He shrugs, uncomfortable. "I don't know."

Her chin lifts, and even though she's a good five inches shorter than him, it feels like she's looking down her nose at him. "I can't help you unless you figure it out."

She goes back to coaxing morning glories to grow around the slats of her headboard, and Bellamy flops onto her bed with a sigh.

"How have you never kissed a girl before?" Clarke wonders aloud. "Or even flirted with one? You're old."

He props himself up on his elbows so he can glare at her.

"I don't see you flirting with anyone," he retorts, and then feels himself pale a little when she raises an eyebrow.

"That doesn't mean I haven't," she says calmly, and holds out a hand until a blossom obligingly drops into her palm. She tucks it into her hair, the bright purple hue of the petals making her eyes seem impossibly blue. "It just means you're oblivious, or that I just have the decency to not broadcast my business to everyone," she adds, pointed. She nudges him until he scoots over, makes room for her on the bed. She picks up the book he'd given to her for her last birthday and opens it to somewhere near the middle.

"Whatever," he mutters, and ignores the deep-down contentment that fills him when she leans against him, soft and warm and smelling like flowers. "It's not exactly easy to just make out with girls when I've got you two living with me."

Clarke snaps the book shut, startling him. When she turns to look at him, she's glaring, and her eyes are that deep grey.

"Don't ever use me as an excuse," she says furiously. "I refuse to be held responsible for the unhappiness you cause yourself. _You're_ the one who wanted me to take the empty bedroom, and you can tell me to leave at any time."

"That's not—" he tries, but then her eyes brim over a little.

"Is that really what you think?" she says. "That I'm just a teenager you have to deal with? Who gets in your way with girls?"

"What? No!" Bellamy says, panicked. "No. I'm sorry, that's not what I mean at all. Please don't leave."

"What _did _you mean, then?" she says.

Uncomfortable, he shifts. "Just—I don't know. You're right, it was shitty and I was blaming you for no reason. It's kind of embarrassing, I guess, being the total failure at romantic relationships that I apparently am. My little sister is better at it than I am, and I've got a six year head start with nothing to show for it."

"Nothing?"

Bellamy flushes, thinks of the way he'd panicked and told Lia she had a bug on her shoulder when she'd leaned in as if to kiss him, and then how he'd slipped away before she could realize there was no bug.

"Nothing," he says.

Clarke rolls her eyes at him. "That's easy enough to fix," she tells him, exasperated, and just as Bellamy frowns, opens his mouth to ask her what she means by that, she sets the book on the ground, turns to straddle him, and kisses him full on the mouth.

Bellamy is frozen, terrified and aroused and utterly confused about how what is currently happening came to be a thing that is actually _happening_, in real life and not just in his dreams.

Hesitant, he starts to move his hands toward her hips, but she pulls away before he can touch her.

"Um," she says, and drops her gaze. "So, yeah. Now you've got something to show for it."

She seems—almost embarrassed, and when he tilts her chin up so he can look her in the face, he can see she's biting the inside of her cheek.

Carefully, while she watches, he closes the gap between their mouths. She's still for a few seconds, and with each one he grows exponentially more nervous and realizes _why _she seemed embarrassed and pulled away from him, if his frozen shock made her feel anything like this.

Her lips are soft, smooth from the balm she mixes up to prevent chapping, and when he slides his hand around to cradle her jaw, her skin feels warm and delicate.

His mouth tingles where it touches hers, and she tastes like magic when she finally opens her lips and kisses him back.

He'd be content to kiss her forever, probably, so he's startled when she takes his hand, the one on her hip, and slides it up her torso to cover her breast.

"Clarke," he says against her mouth, helpless. "You're eighteen." It feels like something he should say, even if he's in love with her.

"I hate panther meat," she replies, and arches into his hand.

"What?" he blurts out, and her breast is surprisingly heavy in his hand.

"I thought we were listing irrelevant facts," she breathes, and grinds against him.

"Oh," he chokes, and rocks his hips up into hers.

* * *

After, she lies on top of him, draped bonelessly over him. She's cuddled against him like this before, but she's never done it naked. That part's new, and interesting, and amazing.

He loves her.

She's nice, and pretty, and makes him laugh. She smells good, and she's his best friend, and he likes kissing her, and he's in love with her.

"Is this magic?" he asks, toying with her hair. "Is it magic making me feel this way?"

Clarke props her chin on his chest, watches him seriously. "Do you think it is?"

"No," Bellamy replies, and smooths a hand down her bare spine until she shivers and presses closer. "No, I think it's just you."

She hums and rolls off him so she can curl into his side. "We've talked about the limits my powers have," she says.

"Yeah."

"We know about one," she says. "But this is another. I can't ever use my magic to change the way you feel, because I won't, Bellamy."

"I know that," he says.

"It wouldn't be real if you didn't love me because _you_ wanted to," Clarke adds softly, and Bellamy squeezes her tight.

"I want to," he tells her, and she starts to glow. Bellamy looks down at her, startled, but she's beaming at him, no trace of silver in her eyes. Just blue, and a soft glow like moonlight that surrounds her whole body.

"I've never seen you do that before," he says, surprised. "Not even when—" He flushes, remembering her gasps and the way she shuddered when he touched her the way she showed him, and she laughs, a clear, delighted sound.

"I've never done it before," she replies, and kisses him thoroughly. "I'm not doing it on purpose. But I've never been this happy, either."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says. "You dummy, I love you."

"Oh, good," he says. "I love you too."

* * *

Clarke tells him later, but she remembers more about her life in the stars than she'd ever told anyone.

Her father was an engineer, she tells him, and Clarke told him their home was dying long before the calculations were run to prove it.

She could feel it, she told her father, could feel the way the bodies were changing incrementally, growing weaker with the slow decline of oxygen levels. She could feel everything.

And she could feel the ground, she'd told him too, how alive it was, with water and earth and living things—not just plants, animals, but people too.

Her father had smiled, ruffled her hair. _You have such a beautiful imagination, Clarke_, he'd said. _It must be that artist's eye of yours._

Clarke had frowned, but let herself be tucked in bed and sent off to sleep.

And the next day, out of idle curiosity, Jake Griffin had started to run the Ark diagnostics, set his computers to running numbers.

By the end of the week, he'd run the numbers countless more times, and he felt endlessly older.

His daughter was right.

The Ark was dying, and so were its people.

So was his daughter, unless he saved her.

His only solace was that if she was right about the Ark, she was right about the ground.

So he had stolen away with her one night, knowing his wife would never forgive him for taking their daughter and sending her away. And he had put her in the tiny dropship he'd repaired, buckled her into the seat, kissed her brow with tears burning at the back of his eyes and throat.

Some of these things, she's not sure how she knows. She only knows that she does, and that they're true.

"I remember waking up, so sleepy," Clarke says. "And I called for him, asked what was going on. He just touched my hair, told me to close my eyes. That he loved me, and everything was going to be alright, because the next time I opened my eyes, I'd be home."

He must have had a little of her own gift, Clarke explains, because she'd instantly fallen back to sleep, and had slept through her father closing the dropship, through the descent to earth, through the landing.

"He told me, _when you open yours eyes again, you'll be home," _Clarke repeats, and smiles at him. "I opened my eyes, and I saw you."


End file.
